When the Rest of the World Walks Out
by Esther-Channah
Summary: Born Again AU. After the grand jury's ruling is handed down, Foggy can't help wondering if he could have done more. He decides to drop in on Matt and make sure that he's doing all right.
1. Chapter 1

References: Daredevil, Volume 1, #203, 227

_"A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out." _

_—Walter Winchell_

**When the Rest of the World Walks Out**

Driving back to his apartment, Foggy couldn't help thinking that he could have done more; that there was some obvious argument or precedent that he and Matt had both overlooked that would have changed the outcome. Because despite the evidence against him, Foggy knew that there was no way that Matt had bribed a witness to perjure himself on the stand. There had to have been some way to refute the charges.

A memory washed over him and with it, a cold sweat. There had been a case that Matt had taken on months ago, a childhood... well, not a childhood _friend_. More of a tormentor. And Matt had subconsciously planned a poor defense and eschewed plea bargains that a first-year law student would have realized were in the client's best interest. Foggy believed Matt when he said that he hadn't known just how badly Stymie's actions had wounded him years earlier. He hadn't realized that his resentment was influencing the way that he chose to argue Stymie's defense. Now Foggy wondered whether, without realizing it, he could been harboring some resentment toward Matt which could have similarly impacted his own arguments.

Their friendship and their working relationship had suffered their ups and downs over the years, and Foggy knew that he'd blamed Matt, at least partly, for the bankruptcy of their former practice. After all, while he'd been struggling to keep the firm afloat, Matt had gone gallivanting off to Arizona, to Venice, to who knew where else... but he hadn't been holding up his share of the partnership. And on the personal front, Foggy hadn't been impressed with the way Matt had treated Heather either.

As he stopped the car at a red light, he had to ask himself whether he might not have been guilty of the same sort of self-sabotage of which he'd accused Matt. He closed his eyes, shook his head and let out a long breath. True, he'd scored a partial victory and managed to keep Matt out of prison, but being disbarred was no joke.

The grand jury inquest hadn't been Matt's only problem these last few months. They hadn't really discussed anything but the case in detail, but from a few comments dropped in passing, Foggy knew that Matt's assets had been frozen, that two mortgage payments on his home had somehow gone missing, his phone was disconnected, his accountant had dropped him. His girlfriend... Foggy winced. Glorianna O'Breen had dumped Matt not long ago. Now, while Foggy wasn't exactly _dating_ her, it was fair to say that he was _seeing_ her. She'd picked up the phone in his apartment when Matt had called to ask for his help. Matt had never asked about it, but he had to have wondered.

A car behind him honked, startling him into realizing that the light had changed. He quickly started across the intersection, but his thoughts were still on Matt. There had to be something they'd overlooked and they were going to find it. In fact, he was going to drive over there right now and reassure him that, as far as he was concerned, this wasn't over. He didn't know if Matt would be up for planning a course of action tonight; with the verdict and the disbarment only hours old, he might want a breather. But the two men hadn't just been business partners. They were best friends. And there was no way that Foggy could turn his back on his best friend after a day like this.

He nodded to himself as he turned east. He could pick up some pizza on the way to Matt's. It would almost be like old times...

* * *

He was less than fifteen blocks from Matt's house (though in this traffic, it was taking longer than it should to get there) and stopped at another red light when he felt himself shaking. He frowned, wondering whether he was really that nervous about showing up at Matt's unannounced, when he realized that it wasn't just him. The Styrofoam cup of coffee he'd picked up in the pizza place was trembling in the holder. The two flat boxes of pizza seemed to twitch. On the sidewalks, the lamp posts and trees were vibrating. Then there came a roar, which Foggy heard even though his car windows were fully closed. Ahead of him, he saw a corona of fire rise up toward the sky. It almost looked like a volcano erupting. What the hell...? His heart lurched. That had to be right around...

The light changed and Foggy continued to his destination as swiftly as he dared, all the while praying that the blast hadn't come from Matt's place.

* * *

The only other time that Foggy had ever seen Matt cry had been when they'd come back from the morgue after identifying Jack Murdock's body. It had been the first time that Foggy had seen a dead body. He'd gone with Matt, not only for moral support, but because neither he, nor the police officers who'd come to notify them, had been sure how Matt would be able to identify a face he couldn't see. Matt's hand had barely trembled as he'd traced the battered contours of his father's visage, but Foggy had seen him pale, even as his too-controlled voice had confirmed, "Yes. That's him."

Foggy wondered how Matt could be so sure. It looked like someone had worked over "Battlin' Jack" Murdock with a baseball bat before shooting him. He forced himself to look at the ugly wounds and the waxen shell that had been a living, breathing human being so very recently and managed a strangled nod. He started to put his arm around Matt, but Matt was already striding quickly away.

"We can drive you back," one of the officers started to say.

"I'll walk," Matt cut him off politely but firmly and headed out of the building.

Foggy hesitated for only the barest instant before running after his best friend. Matt kept his collar up and his shoulders hunched as he hurried along the dark New York streets, holding his white cane before him, but hardly touching its tip to the pavement and never once pausing to get his bearings. At first, Foggy thought that Matt didn't realize that he was following him, but when he had to stop to catch his breath, Matt stopped as well, waiting for him to catch up, before continuing at a somewhat slower pace. Matt didn't say a single word on the way to the dormitory and, once back inside their room, he flung himself face-down on his bed and buried his face in the pillow.

Foggy looked on helplessly, not knowing what to say or do, but knowing that he couldn't just turn his back on a friend. Finally, he sat down on the edge of Matt's bed and awkwardly rested a hand on his shoulder. A strangled sound came from the pillow, too loud for a whimper, too soft for a sob. With his free hand, Foggy reached for the tissue box on the night table and placed it on the pillow. Matt took one with a muffled 'thank you'.

Foggy closed his eyes and shook his head, hating the situation, hating the helplessness, hating seeing Matt this broken. "I'm here for you, buddy," he said softly. Under his hand, Matt's shoulder tensed. Now what had he...? Right. Matt had a hard time accepting help, even when it was warranted. Two of their professors had a habit of writing supplemental notes on the whiteboards without reading them aloud. Matt never let on that it was a problem for him. Instead, he found ways around it—reviewing the lessons with Foggy and filling in the gaps that way. Foggy hadn't realized that Matt was doing it, until he'd found his friend groaning over a failed quiz in Critical Legal Thought. He hadn't been able to find a study partner for that class and Foggy wasn't taking it, having chosen a different elective instead. Convincing Matt that he needed to talk to the professor about it had been like pulling teeth. He _hated _admitting that he needed help. Foggy just hadn't realized how much he also hated _accepting_ help, even if it was offered instead of requested.

Foggy shook his head again. "Matty," he said, trying to find something he could say that wouldn't backfire, "I..." he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry." _If there's anything I can do, just let me know... only you won't, because you never do and I don't know if offering now will hurt more, so I'm just going to sit here, for as long as you don't seem to mind. _"I only met your dad once, but once was all it took to see that he was a great guy and he didn't deserve this." He opened his eyes again and looked down at Matt.

Matt rolled over onto his side and gripped Foggy's forearm wordlessly. His face was red, creased from pressing into the wrinkles in the pillow case, and he looked lost without his glasses (they'd remained on the pillow when he rolled over).

"I can take notes for both of us tomorrow, if you need time to get your head together."

Matt nodded. "You're staying in tonight?" He sounded tired.

"I was planning to," Foggy nodded back automatically. "But if you need some time alone, I could..."

"No!" It came out louder than either of them expected. "No," Matt repeated a bit more softly. "I'd rather not be alone right now."

"I'm here."

Matt closed his eyes. "Thanks."

* * *

Foggy was thinking about that night now, as he practically bolted out of his car, racing to the rubble that had been Matt's brownstone. Matt was kneeling at the edge of the debris, tears leaking out from under his glasses, pouring down his cheeks as he clutched a ragged piece of red fabric tightly in both hands.

"Matt! I saw the explosion from ten blocks away! What happened?"

Matt didn't respond.

Foggy took a good look at the fabric and froze when he saw the double-D insignia. How had Matt...? "You kept Mike's costume all these years?" he exclaimed.

Matt tilted his head then. "Mike...?" he asked in seeming puzzlement.

Foggy blinked. Matt's twin brother Mike had been the original Daredevil, or so Matt had told them ages ago, when they were just starting their practice. Following Mike's death in a plane crash, the mantle had passed to someone else. Matt hadn't seemed as broken up as one might have expected upon the loss of a sibling, but for him to have held on to the costume all these years... His eyes widened. _Unless..._ He pushed the thought away. There would be time to deal with that idea later.

Still on his knees Matt shifted marginally closer. "Foggy?" he asked hoarsely.

"I'm right here, pal," he said, kneeling next to him. He would have put a hand on his shoulder, but Matt recoiled.

"Why?" His voice was harsh, almost accusing, but the anger was gone in an instant. "Why did you come here?" he nearly whispered.

Foggy blinked, taken aback by the initial hostility. "Because your phone's been disconnected and I wanted to tell you in person that I wasn't going to rest until we get today's ruling overturned and you get your license back," he said simply.

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, Matt seemed to retreat into his quilted jacket. "Thanks. I..." His voice trailed off. "I..."

What did you say to guy who'd lost his career, his reputation, and his home on the same day? Foggy reached for Matt's shoulder again. This time, Matt let him. When several long minutes passed and Matt didn't say anything further, Foggy took a deep breath and asked, "What are you going to do now?"

Matt considered. "I guess I can get a..." He shook his head miserably. "No. I _can't_ get a room at the Plaza until the IRS unfreezes my accounts. I..."

"You can stay at my place," Foggy said firmly.

A surprised smile flashed across his face, but it vanished almost instantly. "I couldn't impose on—"

"It's not an imposition," Foggy cut him off.

Matt frowned. "Don't you and Glori need your space?"

"What?"

Now it was Matt who seemed taken aback. "When I called you about taking my case," he said, "she answered your phone at seven a.m. I thought..."

"Matt," Foggy sighed, "I wish you'd asked. She'd had a burglary at her place the day before and she was afraid to be alone. She did spend the night with me, but I slept on the sofa. Since then, she's been around. I mean, she's Debbie's niece and I didn't stop being friendly to her just because Debbie and I separated, but believe me, we aren't dating and we aren't sleeping together."

He sighed. "Look, you can't stay here. I've got two pizzas in the car. We'll go back to my apartment and reheat them and after that," he sighed, "if you really don't want to stay over, I'll pay for the Plaza and you can reimburse me when the IRS gets its act together."

Matt hesitated.

Foggy draped his arm across his shoulders, gratified that Matt neither resisted nor protested. "Come on," he said, rising to his feet and pulling Matt after him. "It's snowing again. Weatherman predicts another six inches by morning. You really want to freeze out here just so you can prove a point?"

For the barest instant, another smile flickered across Matt's lips. "No," he admitted. "And... if you're sure you're okay with it, maybe I will stay at your place. I... I'd rather not be alone right now."

Foggy tightened his grip on Matt's sleeve. "I'm here."

"Thanks." Matt took a deep breath. "But _I'm_ taking the sofa."

"Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

References: Man Without Fear #1, Daredevil Vol. 1 No. 228.

**Chapter 2**

Even before Matt came fully awake the next morning, he knew something was different. For one thing, this wasn't his bed. The mattress was a good deal softer and beneath the palms of his hands, the cotton fabric was padded. Letting his fingers run lightly over the fabric, he found that it was grooved with lines of stitching running through it at regular intervals that crisscrossed on the diagonal. He had to be lying on top of a bedspread instead of under it. There was another blanket over him that felt like a duvet or a comforter. He rolled over with a groan and felt cracker crumbs under his cheek. He didn't eat in bed! Where was he?

Something else was different, he realized. For the first time in weeks, he was warm. Ever since Con-Edison had turned off the heat in his brownstone, he'd slept huddled under extra blankets, but sooner or later, the cold air would slip through, brushing his face, seeping into the chinks between sheet and covers, rousing him for another day of hell. No. Hell, at least, had heat. And today, apparently, so did he.

If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up, but even as he fought to hold onto sleep, bits and pieces of yesterday began to return. The grand jury's verdict... the long walk home—with his last ten dollars in his pocket, he hadn't wanted to pay for cab fare, nor even bus fare... the explosion that had demolished his house... Foggy. Foggy had found him after the blast, brought him back here. And then... what?

His forehead wrinkled as he tried to remember. He'd had a headache. No great shock there; the explosion had played havoc with most of his remaining senses and his stress level hadn't helped matters. The smoke blowing in his face, wafting over, under, and around his glasses, stinging his eyes to tears hadn't helped either. (He refused to consider any other reason why he might have been crying yesterday.) He remembered Foggy getting him into the car, the smell of the pizzas making his mouth water as he'd held them on his lap in the front seat. He'd been too keyed up to eat before the verdict and then he'd told himself that he could wait until he got home to eat. Only home had blown up in his face.

He came fully awake in an instant. _Kingpin!_ It had finally come clear yesterday. Somehow, the Kingpin had learned Matt's identity and set out to ruin him. He'd been behind everything. Which meant that as long as Matt stayed here, Foggy was in danger. Matt pushed away the duvet and willed himself to rise.

He sat up and his head started to spin again. He tried to focus, remembering how Stick had trained him, had helped him to adjust to his enhanced senses, so that his clothes didn't make him itch (unless they were woolen. Wool next to his skin had made him itch even before the accident.), and so that he could walk through a food court without choking on the smells of fried food mingling with grilled, mixing with perfumes, colognes, deodorants, and aftershaves that masked—but never completely hid—the body's natural odors. He had to concentrate. He had to get out of bed, get his coat, get out of Foggy's apartment... and he would. In just another minute, he would. He...

He sank back to the bed and pulled the duvet back up. It was warm and he hadn't been warm in so long. And he was tired...

* * *

When he woke again, he guessed that it was late morning or early afternoon from the sound of the traffic outside the window. Cars were moving freely and he didn't hear many horns honking, so it wasn't rush hour. He supposed that if he got out of bed and opened the window, he could get a better idea of the time from the angle of the sun, but he wasn't really that interested. He was warm. He was relatively comfortable. And he was still tired.

He should probably get up and have breakfast. He'd eaten more than half a pizza last night, but that had been hours ago. He needed to eat if he was going to train and he needed to train if he was going to beat the Kingpin and get his life back. And until he did beat the Kingpin, his staying here was doing nothing but painting a giant target on Foggy's back. He shouldn't think of targets. Kingpin _had_ used Bullseye in the past. If he was using him again, it would be that much harder for Matt to beat him. And he had to beat the Kingpin.

Which meant that he had to get out of this nice, warm bed and out of this nice, warm apartment and back out on the mean, cold streets of New York. He had to find a gym and he had to start training...

He burrowed under the covers once more. He was tired.

He heard footsteps outside the door and he tensed, coming wide awake in a moment. It had to be Kingpin. Somehow, the crimelord had found him. Probably had someone watching the house, watching Matt crying over his house (it had just been because of the smoke, damn it!), watching him get into Foggy's car, tailing him and reporting back to...

"Matt? Are you awake?"

Foggy. And only Foggy. With a sigh, he got up to open the door. Then he stopped. Foggy was alone, true... but was there anyone else in the apartment? Matt listened intently, expanding his focus outward. Yes, there were other heartbeats. He could hear them now. Three... four other people. Wait. Something was off. One of them had a heart rate of over 150 beats per minute and a breathing rate of 40—understandable if they were nervous—but he found no corresponding fear or stress smell in the pheromones, and he should have been able to catch something. It took him a moment to figure it out, but when he did, he nearly laughed in relief. The 'at rest' heart rate for an infant could reach up to 160 beats per minute and the 'at rest' breathing rate could go up to 50. And this was an apartment building. Matt was hearing the neighbors.

"Matt?"

He pulled the door open, yanked a startled Foggy inside, slammed the door shut and braced his back against it. "Are you alone?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.

"Uh... yeah," Foggy said nervously. "What's going on?"

"Has anyone been here looking for me?"

"No," Foggy said, clearly having no idea what was going on. "Matt, are you feeling okay?"

What was he doing? He could have... he'd almost hurt... He let out a long breath and slid to the floor. "I don't know," he admitted. "I'm sorry. I guess after yesterday..."

"Yeah." Matt heard a slightly-pained grunt and felt the floor vibrate as Foggy joined him on the carpet. "Yeah, I'd probably be a little jumpy, too."

Matt nodded. "The explosion wasn't an accident, Foggy," he said slowly.

"No." Foggy didn't sound surprised, which gave Matt pause. "No, buildings don't usually spontaneously explode. I was thinking about that last night, after you fell asleep."

"That reminds me," Matt said with a frown, "I thought we agreed that I was going to take the sofa."

He could hear the smile in Foggy's voice, when he replied, "No, Matt. _You_ said that you were taking the sofa and I _thought_ to myself, 'No way. It's my apartment. You don't get to dictate the sleeping arrangements. I take the sofa, you take the bed, and if you don't like it, you'll just have to deal.'" He shrugged—a gesture Matt could detect, even if Foggy didn't realize it. "Can I help it if I was so annoyed at you trying to tell me what to do in my own home that I actually spoke the last word out loud?"

Matt's lips twitched. "How long did it take you to come up with that justification?"

"I figured it out on the drive home." Foggy sighed. "And anyway, after you ate, you seemed pretty wiped out, so I suggested you lie down in here while I got the sofa set up. By the time I finished, you were out like a light."

He didn't need to check Foggy's heart rate to recognize the ring of truth in _that_ statement. "Thanks," he said simply. "I... I need to leave." The problem was, he didn't think he could stand up. He wasn't sure he could have stayed sitting, were it not for the door at his back.

Disapproval hung heavy in Foggy's tone. "Where are you going?"

"I don't..." Matt took a deep breath. "The explosion wasn't an accident. Kingpin arranged it. He arranged everything. Got Manolis to lie about my bribing that witness. Got the bank to lose my mortgage checks. My accountant dropped me. Glori dumped me."

"Okay," Foggy said slowly. "He could have been behind _most_ of that. But you haven't answered my question, counselor. Where are you going?"

"Damn it, Foggy! I'm not making this up and I'm not crazy!" His voice broke. "I've been under a lot of pressure and yes, it's been getting to me, but I know he's behind this. You have to believe me."

Foggy waited.

"I have to confront him. I have to make him give me my life back. I have to beat him, Foggy." His shoulders slumped.

"And until I do," his voice dropped to a near whisper, "I can't take the chance that ruining my life and blowing up my building was enough for him. He's already separated me from all the _things_ I thought were important to me. If he's getting ready to start on people..."

Foggy swallowed hard. "You're in no shape to go out right now, Matt. You're barely sitting upright."

"As long as I'm here, you're in danger."

Foggy took a deep breath. "Matt... Have you _met_ any of our high-profile clients? I'm... actually pretty used to it by now."

"This isn't a joke, Foggy!" Matt exclaimed. "If anything happens to you because of me I'll—"

"—Never forgive yourself?" Foggy interrupted. "Fine. Now you know how_ I'll_ feel if I read in tomorrow's _Bugle_ about something happening to _you_, knowing that it'll be my fault."

"It won't be your fault."

"If you're leaving to protect me, it damned well will!"

Matt shook his head. "Foggy..."

"Matt," Foggy was almost pleading, "don't shut me out. You said it yourself. Your life has been going to hell in a big way over the last few months. I'm here for you."

"I can't let you involve yourself."

"Shut up. I'm in."

"Foggy, no. This is something I have to deal with on my own."

"When you can barely stand up." Foggy sighed. "Fine," he said slowly. "That's not the only thing about this situation that's bugging me. If I hated someone enough to want to ruin their life, then personally, I'd want to gloat over every minute of it. If Kingpin's the same way, odds are he already knows you're here."

Matt struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. "Which is all the more reason for me to leave."

"Which leaves ME in more danger!" Foggy snapped. "If you walk out now and he comes looking for you or—as you just put it, fixing to separate you from the people you—care about, what exactly is going to keep me alive?"

"Once I'm gone—"

"What if they think you might come back?"

Matt's fingers whitened on the cane and he slid back down.

"I need you, buddy."

Matt nodded slowly. "All right. I'm just… so… tired."

"Well, maybe you'll feel more awake if you eat something," Foggy pointed out. "And after that, we should probably go out. You need a few things to wear and we're not exactly the same size."

Matt nodded. Now that Foggy mentioned it, he did feel more than a little grungy after wearing the same clothes for more than 24 hours.

"I'm also going to get a better chain for the door and see if the hardware store can give me any other advice about improving security. Just, you know, in case you're right about Kingpin."

"A chain won't stop him."

Foggy took a deep breath. "No," he said slowly. "But you will. Won't you… Daredevil?"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to Elle Weiss for free legal advice. Some dialogue from Daredevil Vol. 1 No. 228 (originally written by Frank Miller) has been tweaked for insertion in this chapter.

**Chapter 3**

Foggy hadn't anticipated the effect that his question would have on Matt, though given the way his best friend had been behaving, perhaps he should have. Matt lunged, closing the narrow gap between the two men, his hands extending toward Foggy's throat.

"What did you call me?" he demanded. "How did you know? How does he know?"

Unprepared, Foggy managed a single, frantic "Matt!" before the hands tightened, cutting off his air. He couldn't believe that this was happening. Gasping, he desperately brought his own hands up to Matt's arms, clawed at them, tried to pull them away. No good. The room started to fade before his eyes and all he could see was Matt's face, red with rage, barely human, filling his field of vision, then growing darker and darker as he choked, fighting desperately for oxygen...

As quickly as the attack had come, it ceased and he could breathe again. Matt had retreated back to 'his' spot against the door, holding up his hands as though he could see them. They were trembling, Foggy noted clinically, as he rubbed his neck, gulped in fresh air, and tried to ignore the voice in his head that told him that Matt had just tried to kill him.

"Foggy?" Matt's voice was a hoarse whisper, almost as though he'd been the one choking. "Are you...?"

"I'm right here, Matt," Foggy said wearily.

The tremor in Matt's hands intensified. "I thought... I almost... I could have..." He pressed himself against the door as though he would have retreated further had it not been in the way. "Oh, G-d, Foggy. I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

For what seemed like a long time, neither man moved nor spoke. Finally, Matt took a deep breath and expelled it with an audible sigh. "How did you find out?"

Foggy hesitated.

Matt flinched. "I'm not going to attack you again," he said. "I can't believe I..." his voice trailed off, but the look of horror on his face was unmistakable.

"Makes two of us." It was a weak joke, but it was the best he could do at the moment. "Maybe," Foggy ventured, "I could have timed that better."

"No." Matt was shaking his head. "No. And even if you had, that doesn't excuse my reaction. I..." He took another breath. "I think I'm sick, Foggy. Something... I think there's something wrong with my mind." His face took on a probing look. It seemed to Foggy that it was almost as though Matt was trying to _listen_ for his reaction.

Foggy inched closer, reached out, and placed a hand on Matt's arm.

Matt exhaled. "How _did_ you know?" he asked again.

Foggy joined him against the door. "I think it really gelled for me yesterday," he admitted. "When I found you with the costume. What was left of it, I mean," he added. "You know, there were a couple of things about your twin brother that never sat right with me."

Matt tilted his head, questioning.

"After you lost your dad," Foggy continued, resting a hand on Matt's shoulder, "when you asked me to come back with you and help you pack up his things, I found some old photo albums. Obviously, I didn't think I could ask you to tell me who was in the pictures, but I admit I was curious and I leafed through. They were all of you and your dad. Nobody else."

"You don't know that," Matt's lips twitched. "If Mike and I were identical twins..."

"Then there would have been a bunch of photos of the two of you, side-by-side, in cute matching outfits."

Under his hand, Foggy felt Matt relax. "Circumstantial, but I'll concede your point."

"Not to mention that, while I was preparing your defense argument for the grand jury hearing, I had occasion to review some of your paperwork. Michael is your middle name. Now, while it's not precisely illegal to give two of your kids the same name, it's pretty unusual."

Matt expelled a short breath, almost like a laugh. "True."

"As I recall," Foggy went on, "the first time you ever mentioned Mike was when Karen and I both thought that you were Daredevil. Looks like we were right all along."

"Surprise."

"I have to admit that faking blindness is a great cover."

"Excuse me?" His arm tensed.

"You pull it off well," Foggy continued calmly, "but every so often, you forget. Like when I got into the office early one day, noticed that one of the lights in the waiting room was burned out and decided to change it myself instead of waiting for building maintenance.

"I don't—"

"The phone rang in my office," Foggy continued, and I thought it might be important, so I ran to answer it, leaving the stepladder in the middle of the floor. When I got off the phone and went back, it was just in time to see you walk in. You had your cane in one hand, an armload of packages in the other, and even though the stepladder was right in your path, you didn't hesitate for a second. You just detoured around it when you were more than a foot away.

Matt's fingers clenched around his cane. "So you decided my blindness was an act."

"No. Not then. But there've been other incidences. Like how you found your way back to the dorm the night your father died, even though the police drove us to the station and there was no way you could have known where we were. The times I've had to drop something in your office and found the latest _Howard Journal _sitting on your desk and not the Braille edition. And sometimes, when we're walking out on the street and you aren't paying that much attention, you just hold your cane, but you don't actually swing it. Little things add up."

"They do indeed," Matt whispered. "What else?"

"You told Glori that you could see."

Matt winced. "That was temporary."

"Excuse me?"

Matt sighed. "Attention to detail always has been one of your strengths," he mused. Foggy watched his friend's jaw clench and unclench as he appeared to think something over. At last, Matt took a deep breath and exhaled. "Fine," he said wearily. "Yes, I'm Daredevil. And, as you correctly surmise, I created the Mike Murdock identity to allay your suspicions, when you and Karen came to that conclusion. Back in college, I told you that I lost my sight in a traffic accident and that's also true. But that wasn't the only thing that happened to me when the radioactive waste canister hit my face..."

* * *

"...And," Matt concluded, "again, I'm not trying to justify attacking you, but ever since I put it all together and realized that the Kingpin had learned that I was Daredevil, I've been trying to figure out how he found out."

Somewhere in the course of the explanation, Foggy had gone from resting his hand on Matt's arm to wrapping it around both of his shoulders. He removed it now. "So, after I confronted you just now, you decided I must have told him?" he demanded. "Boy, thanks a lot."

Matt slumped miserably. "I don't blame you for being mad," he said. "For weeks... months, now... it's felt like everyone was against me, like there was some... vendetta. I kept telling myself it was all in my head. Then when I found out that some of it wasn't, I... I started thinking that maybe I'd been right about everything. That..." His lips pressed together.

"That I might have deliberately botched your defense to ruin you," Foggy groaned.

"No!" Matt shook his head emphatically. "Foggy, I told you yesterday that you were brilliant. I meant it. You found precedents I never would have thought applied, you kept me out of prison, you did everything you could possibly have done—"

"And we still lost!" Foggy shot back, his anger dissolving in the face of yesterday's guilt.

"That wasn't your fault!" Matt gripped his forearm for emphasis. "I know that. I just... forgot."

"You forgot." Foggy took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's review. You told me that the radioactive waste enhanced your other senses."

Matt nodded. "Yes."

"Enhanced them to the point where you can tell whether someone is lying from the sound of their heartbeat."

"That's a primary indicator, yes. Sweat pheromones help too."

"All right." A hint of steel crept into his tone as he shrugged off Matt's hand. "Let's settle this, once and for all, then. Matt, I want you to listen to me and listen good, because I don't want to have to say it again. Are you ready? Okay. Now. I am not working with the Kingpin or any of your other enemies. I did not sell you out. I am on your side and, provided that you don't try to kill me again, you are welcome to stay here for as long as you need, until you're back on your feet again, for however long that takes. Meanwhile, I am going to work like hell to get your name cleared and your license restored—or die trying. What does your built-in polygraph make of _that_?" For a moment, there was no reaction and Foggy wondered whether Matt had read some indication of falsehood, buried on a level so deep that Foggy didn't realize it was there. Then there was a tentative grip on his forearm. He smiled and brought his free hand up to cover Matt's. "Well, Counselor?"

"You're telling the truth," Matt said raggedly. "I had to have known that before, too. I just..." His shoulders slumped. "Thank you. I know how badly I've messed things up, these last few months. You tried to warn me about the state of our practice. I ignored you. I... hated letting you down and..." Matt often forgot to face people when he was speaking to them, particularly when he was agitated. He turned toward Foggy now with a tired smile, "I guess I hated myself for doing it and figured you probably did, too."

"No," Foggy shook his head emphatically. "No way. I admit I was angry, but..."

"You had every right to be. And you would have had every right to... to hang up on me weeks ago, when I asked for your help after I first got the summons."

Foggy sighed. "Hey. You're still the best friend I've ever had. Even if you can be a real jerk sometimes." That got him a smile. Foggy grinned and stole a glance at his watch. "Now, is there any chance that we can have something to eat—lunch for me, breakfast for you—and hit the stores before they close?"

For answer, Matt rose to his feet. Foggy struggled to follow suit. Something poked him in the side.

"Here."

With a rueful chuckle, Foggy gripped the cane and let Matt pull him up. "Thanks."

"No, Foggy. Thank _you_."

* * *

Wilson Fisk was a careful man, given to calm deliberation. He made no move without planning, no action without a realistic appraisal of the consequences. Now he gazed impassively at the man whom he had set to shadowing Matthew Murdock and gave a slight nod. "Report."

The lieutenant swallowed. "It is indeed behavior of the most fraternate variety that I observe while perusing Matt Murdock, as per your advisement, Kingpin. He goes with Nelson via an automotive conveyance to Columbus Circle, whereupon he enters a local establishment. Such establishment is being of the apparellous nature. Nelson facilitates Murdock's shopping experience through the use of credit cards, these being of the gold and platinum variety..."

As Kingpin listened, he pursed his lips together in a deep frown. "Continue your surveillance," he said at last. "If you see Murdock leave Nelson's apartment alone, notify me immediately. Particularly," he added, "should it appear that he is seeking lodgings elsewhere."

So. At least one of Murdock's friends was still standing by him. Steps might need to be taken, but not hastily. Nelson was a clever litigator; one whom Kingpin knew would be an asset to his organization. And Murdock might not stay with him for long. Yes, Fisk smiled, he could afford to bide his time and await further developments. And if he did indeed need to deal with Nelson, it would be unfortunate, but there were plenty of other brilliant attorneys in New York.

He smiled. If it were possible to eliminate Nelson in such a way that Murdock appeared to be at fault... yes, that might tie up the loose ends rather neatly. This would bear additional thought. His smile grew malevolent as he began to plan.


	4. Chapter 4

References: Man Without Fear #1

**Chapter 4**

It took two months without heat or hot water to make Matt truly appreciate the therapeutic effects of a hot bath. When he and Foggy had returned from their shopping trip, he'd grabbed a towel and headed toward the bathroom, while Foggy had set about improving the apartment's security. (They both knew that the extra chain would do little to stop a determined intruder, but it was still better than the current setup.) Once reassured that Foggy's rent included utilities, Matt drew the bath, lay back in the tub, submerged himself in warm water up to his neck and tried to release the tensions of the last few weeks.

He wasn't sure how long he soaked. He knew that at some point, Foggy stopped pounding nails into the door and wall, cursing each time he missed the nail and hit his thumb. When the water cooled, he let some of it drain and ran the hot tap again. He knew that he'd have to get out eventually, but not now.

He was still tired, but it wasn't the crippling lethargy that had overtaken him earlier. Kingpin had hurt him. He had to acknowledge that and accept that he needed some time to recuperate. Soon. Soon he would have his life back. But for now...

"_Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Get up."_

Startled, Matt sat bolt upright, sloshing water over the side of the tub. "Wha...?" He knew that voice.

"_Undisciplined,"_ the voice rasped. _"Indulgent. Emotional._"

No. It wasn't possible. "Stick?" It couldn't be. There was no other heartbeat in the room. No breathing but his own, no silica-corundum smell of pool chalk mixed with myrrh and sandalwood incense. No, Matt knew he was alone. But he could still hear the same sharp sarcastic voice that had forced its way through the wall of self-pity he'd erected around himself after the accident. But that had been then. He wasn't feeling sorry for himself now. He was just tired. That was all. And... maybe it was time to take stock and let a few things go. He wasn't a lawyer anymore. Without a place to train, without a costume, maybe Daredevil needed a break, too. Maybe it was time to...

A new voice broke into his thoughts, thick with rage and strong with purpose. Another voice that Matt knew he couldn't be hearing, but memories were odd things and, at times, stronger than reality.

"_...My boy is out there in the audience and I'm thinking about how I told him one thing worth a damn. I told him to __**never**__ give up. __**Never.**__ It's time I showed him his Dad might be a __**loser**__... but he's no __**quitter**__."_

The crowd had been roaring that night. It had been hard for Matt to know what was going on. Foggy had tried to give him a play-by-play, but his voice had been swallowed up in the cheers and boos and bells and stomping feet. Still, every now and then, there had been a slight ebb in the cacophony and a snatch of conversation had carried. And those words, the last words he ever heard his father speak, had seared themselves into his brain, replaying in dreams and in fleeting moments of solitude. He would never forget them and he couldn't ignore them.

"Message received, Dad," he whispered. He took a deep breath, held it for a seven-count, then released it. He repeated the exercise a second time and then a third. How long had it been since he'd even tried to meditate? _Too long_. He set his jaw firmly and took a fourth breath.

The water was tepid by the time he stopped and he pulled out the plug with his toes. The soak had done his tired muscles a world of good, but it had also made him drowsy and he'd slept too many hours away already. He hauled himself upright, drew the plastic curtain, and ran the shower. A cold one.

* * *

Foggy was on the sofa, leaning toward the television, but he turned the set off as soon as Matt came into the living room. Matt shook his head. "You don't have to stop watching on my account," he said, smiling.

"Ehhh," Foggy snorted, "there's nothing on anyway. How are you doing?"

"Better." He joined Foggy on the sofa. A moment later, he frowned. "Did you spill coffee on this?"

"Yeah," Foggy admitted, sounding surprised. "A couple of days ago. You're telling me that even though I got the stain out, you still smell it?"

"It's faint, but it's there," Matt nodded. "It'll fade in time. Meanwhile," he smiled, "I like the smell of coffee anyway."

Foggy sighed in relief. "I guess I'd better pay more attention to stuff like that, though. I can try to keep the TV and radio lower and—"

"I appreciate the thought," Matt shook his head, "but I really wish you wouldn't." Foggy started to say something. Matt held up a hand. "No. Seriously. You've known me for _how_ many years now?" He plowed on without waiting for an answer. "I had enhanced senses all that time and it's not like going a varsity basketball game ever left me curled up in the fetal position with my hands over my ears." He forced a smile. "Look. You've never felt a need to walk on eggshells around me, before. Don't start now."

Foggy considered that for a moment. "Okay," he said, and Matt heard the smile in his voice and the creak of the sofa as he leaned back. "So. Am I the first person to figure out you're Daredevil?"

Matt tilted his head toward him. "It was the Kingpin who left my costume in the rubble," he pointed out. "His way of 'signing' his work."

"Right," Foggy exhaled. "Sorry."

"Karen knew," Matt said after a moment. "We were becoming serious. I was contemplating asking her to marry me and, under the circumstances, I felt I had to tell her. She couldn't deal with it. It's the main reason we broke up."

"Ah. Wait. Spider-Man knows, too, right?"

"Yes."

Foggy let out another long breath. "Okay. The woman you thought you were going to marry. Your worst enemy. Another costumed hero... anyone else?"

"Black Widow."

"How about Heather?"

"Yes."

"Glori?"

"No."

"Anyone else?"

Matt hesitated. "Ben Urich."

"Who?"

"He's an investigative reporter with the _Bugle_. He figured it out. He was planning a whole exposé."

"Oh, for..." Foggy broke off abruptly. "What happened?"

"He changed his mind." Matt slumped. "He called me when the news broke about the grand jury. He wanted to get my side things. I blew him off." He winced. "I should probably call him to apologize."

Foggy groaned. "So half the Western Hemisphere already knew about this and you didn't tell me."

"I didn't _tell_ anyone but Karen and Heather. The others found out on their own." He reached over and put a hand on Foggy's shoulder. "You're right, though. I should have told you before this."

"No kidding."

The hurt in Foggy's voice was almost palpable. Matt sighed. "The two people I did tell on my own, I..." He sucked in a breath. "I'll probably never be certain whether knowing my identity was part of what led Heather to..." He shook his head. "I can't be certain. But, I do know that Karen couldn't handle it. She'd had a few brushes with the people I fight. She knew too well the danger. And once I told her, she worried every time she knew I was out in costume. That worry was a big part of why she left. Her leaving was a big part of why I didn't want to tell you." He shook his head. "But I still should have."

For a moment, Foggy was silent. Then, "Did I mention that you can be a real jerk sometimes?"

"You did."

"Case. In. Point." He sighed. "Okay. I know now. Better late than never. And I get that you didn't want to risk my letting you down, but I wish you could have..." He broke off abruptly. "Oh, what's the use? What's done is done. I know now," he repeated. "I'm not running for the door and I'm not kicking you out on your ear." He covered the hand on his shoulder with his own. "Just... try trusting me a little more from now on?"

Matt nodded. "You got it."

* * *

Matt woke up the next morning feeling—if not exactly invigorated, at least—a great deal closer to his old self than he had in a long time. He knew he wasn't ready to take on the Kingpin yet, but he wasn't going to sit cowering in Foggy's apartment, either. Kingpin had ripped almost everything away from him, so it was time to go back to the basics. If he had to start from scratch, then so be it.

He opened one of the dresser drawers that Foggy had cleared out for him yesterday—over his protests—and pulled out a pair of cargo pants, a t-shirt and a cable-knit sweater. A stale sweat-and-smoke smell from the hamper in the corner hit him and he wrinkled his nose with distaste. Last night, he'd been too tired to notice and he'd had other things on his mind until now, but he was going to have to wash those clothes... or burn them. For now, he cracked the window open a bit to air out the room and headed for the kitchen.

* * *

Foggy wished him a good morning through a mouthful of doughnut. "Guess you know what's on the table," he said. "Help yourself. Or ask if there's something else you want."

Matt nodded. "Is that a toaster?" he asked, gesturing toward the counter.

"Uh... yeah."

"Thanks." He'd caught Foggy's hesitation and he had a pretty good idea of the reason for it. "Asking about the extent of my hyper-senses isn't walking on eggshells around me, just so you know," he smiled. "My radar sense gives me shapes... contours. Deductive reasoning fills in a lot of the blanks. I see something on the counter that looks like a square box. There's an electrical cord coming out from behind... at least, I think I can infer that it's plugged in," he pointed to the wall socket, "and not some I-don't-even-know-what that you've chained to the wall." He reached toward the loaf of sandwich bread on the table, took two slices, and strode toward the toaster. "Believe me, if we were in a store where they tie the merchandise to the walls or counters, I'd have a harder time distinguishing between an electrical cord and a security chain. Anyway, this is a kitchen, so it's probably a small appliance. You don't buy a lot of fad gadgets, so it's not likely to be a juicer or a yogurt-maker; not that I'd recognize one of those without having one pointed out to me. So, at this point, I've pretty much got it narrowed down to three likely possibilities: a toaster, a clock or a radio. You've got a radio on that shelf," he pointed over Foggy's head, "at least, the sports scores were coming from up there yesterday. Clocks don't necessarily need to be on counters, so I'm going with toaster." He placed the bread in the slots and slid the lever down.

Foggy laughed and applauded lightly. "And your sense of smell tells you when the bread's dark enough?"

"You got it. Now," he lowered his voice as though about to impart some great secret, "my hypersenses don't tell me where you keep your frying pans and I could really go for some scrambled eggs."

"Cabinet to the left of the window," Foggy smiled. "Just turn the burner about a notch lower than you think you should. They're made out of some new alloy that heats up faster or better."

"Noted. You have eggs, right?"

"Yeah, in the fridge. Second shelf up from the crisper... Sorry, I don't remember which side."

Matt shrugged. "Egg cartons have a distinctive shape. That's how I knew they weren't on the table. I think I can find them." He flicked the toaster lever back up and smiled with satisfaction.

"Did you have any plans this evening?" he asked, as he set the pan down on the burner.

Foggy considered. "I don't know. I'm pretty open. Why?"

"I need to buckle down," Matt said. "Kingpin believes I'm beaten and that's fine; let him. What's important is that _I_ don't start believing it." His face fell for a moment. "...Again," he added.

"Okay," Foggy said slowly. "So..."

"So I need to get into the right headspace. That means training. Normally, this would not be a problem; I had a gym in my brownstone."

"This is a problem," Foggy replied.

"This is a problem," Matt confirmed, as he opened the fridge. "There are two solutions. One is going to be difficult for both of us. One is just going to be inconvenient." He closed the fridge door with one hand while carefully holding the eggs in the other.

There was a long pause. Then, Foggy exhaled softly. "Hit me."

Matt hesitated. "I put some of my father's things in storage. I couldn't get rid of them, but some things... his gloves... his punching bag... there were too many memories, too many familiar smells... Having them in the house would have been overwhelming. But I could get them out of storage and bring them here, except that you don't have that much room." He lifted the butter dish off the table.

"...And they might still trigger those memories."

"They might," Matt admitted. "I don't know, but at this point, I'll risk it."

"Okay. What's the other solution?"

"Fogwell's gym," Matt replied. "It's in Hell's Kitchen. I know how to get in after hours. Lord knows I did it often enough when I was training in the first place. It's not far from the subway. I was thinking of going tonight after supper."

"I could drive you."

Matt smiled. "Thanks, Foggy, but you don't drive a Lincoln Town Car through Hell's Kitchen in broad daylight, let alone after dark, unless you're looking to get it keyed. Or stolen."

"So... subway?"

"Subway," Matt nodded.

"Can I come?" There was a wistful note in his voice. "I'd kind of like to watch."

Matt paused from spooning the eggs out of the frying pan and onto his plate.

"Hey, I wouldn't mind the chance to see a bona fide hero work out."

Matt chuckled. "My head still may not be where it needs to be," he admitted, sobering. "I might spend a lot of time falling on my face."

"I wouldn't mind the chance to see that, too."

This time the chuckle erupted into a full-blown laugh. "Fogwell's closes at eight," he said. "The staff is usually gone within ten minutes, but we'll leave here at eight-thirty, just in case they're slow."

"Sounds like a plan. What are you doing until then?"

Matt hesitated.

"I mean, we could start reviewing your case."

"Let's deal with Kingpin first. I don't think we'll get anywhere until that's done. I'm going to head to the library and see what I can turn up on Fisk Industries." Foggy started to say something, but Matt held up a hand. "Don't hover." He pulled off his glasses. "There are ways to not be noticed."

"What? By taking off your glasses?" Foggy averted his eyes. "Sorry. Without them you look... very noticeable."

Matt smiled. "Yes. But not very much like Matt Murdock. There are two things that _usually_ make me stand out in a crowd," he pointed out. "The sunglasses and this cane." So saying, he lifted the cane, pressed a button in the center, and folded it neatly in half. "It'll fit into a coat pocket now," he said.

His expression turned serious. "Truthfully, if Kingpin has people watching this place and tailing me, there's not much I'll be able to do to shake them. I have to assume that they know it's just you and me in here and they're going to follow anyone who isn't you. But if they're not that thorough... if they're just flashing a photo around and asking people if they've seen me, without my glasses... well, people may _look_ at me, but they won't _see_ me. They'll be too busy looking away."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Why do you think I wear sunglasses in the first place?"

* * *

Matt spent the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon at the library looking at annual reports and browsing periodicals indexes for information on Fisk Industries. He hadn't expected to turn up much of anything that seemed immediately useful—criminal fronts were hardly in the habit of listing their illegal activities in public documents. Still, by the time he left, he had a fairly-good idea of the companies that were directly or indirectly under the Kingpin's control. He wasn't sure how helpful that was going to be at the moment, but it was a start.

If nothing else, he had a fairly good idea of where not to look for work when he started job-hunting—and he was going to have to and fairly soon. He couldn't keep taking advantage of Foggy's good will and he couldn't assume that they'd be able to get his license back in short order. These things took time and he needed to do something in the interim. He just didn't know what.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Special thanks to Aiyokusama for advice on self-defense techniques. And thanks to Karate-Kicker for catching something I missed!

**Chapter 5**

Foggy Nelson was having fun. He suspected that Matt was as well. From his seat on one of the empty benches lining the walls, he'd watched as his best friend had attacked a heavy bag, almost as a man possessed, pummeling out the frustrations of the last few months. He guessed that Matt needed the release, but it hadn't stopped him from wincing a bit at the force of the blows and being extremely grateful that he _hadn't_ been the one to sell Matt out to the Kingpin.

After a few minutes, though, Matt had stopped whaling on the bag, done some stretches, and switched to the gymnastics equipment. Foggy looked on in awe. It was one thing to realize that Matt was Daredevil. It was another thing to see him in action, out of costume. Because even though he now knew that Matt and Daredevil were one and the same, he'd still been having a hard time picturing his closest friend in that red suit and face mask. Until now. It was plain to Foggy that Matt was in his element, moving from vaulting horse to uneven bars, to rings, to floor with an ease and fluidity the like of which he had never dreamed Matt was capable. Matt might have been careless about the extent to which his blindness handicapped him, but he'd never demonstrated any kind of athletic ability before—unless pool sharking counted.

Maybe, Foggy thought with a smile, that was the point. These acrobatics were incredible to watch, but they didn't have much to do with training for a fight, the reason that Matt had given him for coming here. No, this was more like showing off... or opening up. Matt usually maintained a certain reserve. Foggy couldn't find a vestige of it now. Matt was done with holding back. Foggy had pleaded with Matt not to shut him out. Matt was going one better. He was letting him in.

* * *

It was another twenty minutes before Matt made his way unerringly to the bench, grabbed the towel he'd left there before starting his workout, and picked up a bottle of water. He draped the towel over his shoulders, untwisted the cap with a swift motion, raised it to his lips, and drank deep.

"Not too bored?" he asked Foggy.

"Are you kidding me?"

Matt smiled. "Just checking." He sighed. "I'll ache tomorrow, but it'll be worth it."

"If you say so," Foggy said dubiously. "But you looked good out there."

"I'm out of practice," Matt admitted. "I didn't realize it until everything started going wrong, but going out at night was a relief. I haven't done that in over a week and I think the strain was starting to tell."

Foggy nodded. "I get that. When you're in costume, the only thing you really have to hide is your face. The rest of the time, you're hiding everything else."

"And," Matt sighed, "from what you implied the other day, doing a lousy job of it."

"Hey," Foggy smiled, "I noticed that stuff because of all the time we've spent hanging around each other. It's not as obvious as I might have made it sound."

"Maybe not," Matt admitted, "but Kingpin found out somehow. And if I've been careless at times, you may not be the only one who's noticed." He took another swig of water.

"Even if that's true," Foggy said, "what's the thought process here? Matt Murdock seems to just keep his cane around for show... ergo, he's Daredevil? C'mon, I had to find you holding your costume to start thinking back about all the little things that didn't fit properly."

Matt nodded. "I've been trying to figure out how it could have happened. I'm careful about listening to make sure nobody's nearby when I change. I could have missed a security camera, though." He made a face. "I try not to suit up in unfamiliar places, but sometimes, I don't have a choice. It's possible that someone down on the street could have looked up and spotted me as Daredevil, slipping through my skylight."

"Yeah," Foggy nodded back. "And if you were injured out there, maybe you wouldn't have been paying as close attention."

"It's possible." Matt sighed. "On the one hand, Kingpin knows. Learning how he found out won't change that. On the other hand, if he has found out, others might in time. If there are precautions I can take..."

Foggy let out a long breath. "You don't think Kingpin's going to tell anyone?"

Matt shook his head. "He had to have known for months. If he wanted to spread the word, he would have done it by now."

"And if he changes his mind?"

Matt's expression turned grim. "Hopefully, I'll have dealt with him before he contemplates doing so." His fingers brushed the Braille watch on his wrist. "It's getting late," he said. "We should go. Is everything the way it was when we came in? No mud or snow tracked in?"

"No tracks, no spilled water, and we didn't bring any food with us, so no crumbs," Foggy replied cheerfully. "Are we coming back tomorrow night?"

"Assuming I didn't overdo it tonight," Matt said, stretching, "that's my plan. If you have something else you'd rather be doing, though..."

"No, I'm in. Unless you'd rather I wasn't," he added belatedly.

Matt smiled. "No, I'm actually glad of the company."

* * *

On the subway ride home, Foggy's eyes slid briefly over the other passengers in the car. He tensed.

"Are you all right?" Matt asked softly.

Foggy nodded. "Yeah, I thought..." The doors opened and several passengers exited. He exhaled. "Nothing. I thought I recognized one of the guys in the car from the trip down."

Matt chewed his lower lip for a moment, as though debating what to say next. "You did," he said finally. "I told you we were being watched."

"What?"

He nodded. "My guess? He got off two stops early because he's either got a car or he's going to hail a cab. He knows we're probably going back to your place—if not now, then eventually. It's less suspicious than if he were to get off at our stop. Besides," he added, "someone else got on at the last stop and sat down two seats behind us—don't turn around," he added. "I recognize that wheezing breath. He tailed me from the library yesterday. We're under surveillance, but so far, all they're doing is watching."

"So far," Foggy gulped.

"Relax. Radar sense is 360 degrees. I can see how he's sitting. From the way he's holding himself, he's not planning an attack. No gun oil smell, so he's not armed. He's just here to make sure that we get off where we're expected to. If we don't, he'll report back that I'm on to them."

"Them?"

"Kingpin and his... people," Matt said. "I'm pretty sure you were right about his wanting to observe his handiwork up close." He sighed. "I'll have to face him sooner, rather than later. For now, though... I think he's waiting to see if I'm truly beaten or just taking a breather."

Foggy winced. "You're handling this pretty calmly."

"It's funny," Matt said slowly. "With all the stress of the last few weeks, with the hearing and the foreclosure and everything else hanging over me... it's almost a relief to know that I'm _only_ being watched."

"For now."

"For now."

Their stop was coming up and Matt rose from his seat. Foggy followed suit. The doors parted, they disembarked and made their way through the station. At the foot of the steps that led to street-level, Matt paused. "Don't turn around when we get upstairs," he cautioned. "But just so you know, the guy you spotted is about 25 feet away. I'm guessing he's standing in a doorway across the street."

"And you're sure it's safe to go up?"

"Reasonably."

Foggy swallowed hard, but he kept pace with Matt and resisted the temptation to turn around and confirm their shadow. It wasn't until they were back in the apartment and he was putting the security chain on the door that he started breathing more easily.

* * *

Three nights later, Foggy waited until Matt dismounted from the parallel bars before he slowly got up from the bench and walked over, holding a water bottle.

Matt frowned. "You didn't have to come all the way over here," he said. "I can get that myself."

"I know."

Matt tilted his head. "Your heart rate is spiking," he said with concern. "Are you okay?"

Foggy took a deep breath. "Sort of," he exhaled. "I guess... Matt, I'm sorry. This whole... thing is making me jumpy. I keep tensing up every time I hear footsteps behind me... or out in the hallway. When we're walking down the street, I wonder how many of the people we pass are keeping tabs. I..."

Matt put a hand on his shoulder. "_I'm _sorry," he said. "That's one reason I didn't want to involve you until now. They're after me, not you. There's no reason that you should have to start looking over your shoulder." He smiled. "I appreciate everything you've done, but it's probably best that I move on. I'll start looking for a place tom—"

"Hold it," Foggy interrupted. "That's not was I was hinting at. If it were, I wouldn't be interrupting your practice time to dump on you."

The relief on Matt's face yielded quickly to puzzlement. "Then...?"

Foggy took another breath. "I'd like you to teach me a few moves. No," he barreled on quickly, "not acrobatics. I know you've practiced that stuff for years and it'd probably take more time than I've got to learn half of them. But there has to be something you can show me that might give me a better chance if Kingpin decides to... to have his goons grab me to get to you."

Matt was silent for a long moment. His hand tightened on Foggy's shoulder. "You understand," he said slowly, "that anything I show you now is only to be used as a last resort. Your first, best defense should always be to run. However, if you can't..." His voice trailed off.

"If I can't?" Foggy prompted when Matt didn't continue.

"Put down the water," Matt directed. "Let's move over there." He gestured to a corner of the gym that was empty, save for a large mat on the floor. "Anyone looking in from the street has a good view of the fitness equipment, but that corner should be out of their line of sight."

"And you know this, how?"

Matt smiled. "When I was in elementary school, I used to stop by on my way home to watch Dad train. He didn't want me to come in. He kept telling me I needed a quiet place to study, which the gym never was during the day. But I spent a lot of time looking in the window." His face turned serious. "You're wearing a sweater," he said, all business. "Do you have a t-shirt under it?"

"Yes."

"Lose the sweater. And next time, if you have track pants, you might want to bring them..."

* * *

The moves that Matt taught him over the next few days were quick and brutal, designed to break holds and facilitate escapes. "Once you're free," Matt reminded him, "go. These are defensive moves. Don't stick around to finish the fight."

Foggy nodded. He wasn't usually squeamish, but... "Do I really have to shatter someone's kneecap?"

"It's a good way to stop them from chasing after you," Matt pointed out. "But, no. Kicking the side of your opponent's knee will make break the joint, not the kneecap. Kick the back of the knee if you just want to make it buckle. Do that and he'll recover faster, though. Or she will," he added as an afterthought. When Foggy was silent, Matt gave him a reassuring smile. "You don't _have_ to do this, you know."

"What's the matter?" Foggy grinned back. "Afraid of a little competition?"

They shared a laugh.

"Look," Foggy said seriously, "less than a week ago, you were ready to leave, because you thought it was the best way to protect me. I think what we're doing now is better."

"Possibly," Matt allowed. "Okay. Now, if someone has you in a hammerlock, what you need to do first is turn into it... here. Try it on me." He smiled. "Again, turn into it," he demonstrated, "and then follow up with a kick to the knee. Want to try?"

Foggy paused. "What if it works? I don't want to break your knee for real."

Matt grinned. "You're going to go at half speed. I'll talk you through it."

"Okay..."

Matt took hold of Foggy's arm and twisted it behind his back. "What's your first move?"

"Turn into it," Foggy said, moving hesitantly.

"'Slow' doesn't mean 'awkward,'" Matt said. "Try it again. Better. Okay. What next?"

"I'm going to kick the back of your knee," Foggy replied. "If I mess up and kick too hard, I don't want to put you out of commission, for real."

"I can counter," Matt pointed out. "Kneecap. Give it a shot. Half speed... fine, slower if you must... Hold it. Right there. You feel that?"

Foggy's heart rate sped up slightly. "Yeah, I feel... something. What..."

"You're just on the verge of doing real damage," Matt smiled. "The knee can only take so much pressure in that spot. A little more force, a little bit faster, and you'll have it."

"Wow."

"Again," Matt reminded him, "this is just enough to break the hold, but your opponent will recover quickly. When he does, he's going to come after you and he's going to be angry."

Foggy swallowed. "You really want me to try to break someone's kneecap."

"I want you to go through the motion at half speed, yes." He twisted Foggy's arm in another hammerlock. "Go. OWW!"

"MATT!" As Foggy's arm came free he turned and knelt down next to his best friend, who was groaning and holding his leg. "Matt, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

Matt smiled. "If I'd been a real opponent, your next objective would be to increase the distance between us, not—OW!" His hand flew to his arm. "Okay, I deserved that," he admitted.

"Damned right. I thought I'd..."

"I know. But if you ever do end up having to use these moves in a real situation, you can expect that reaction. When you get it, don't stop to admire your handiwork or check if you really hurt the guy. Get out of there, fast." He clapped a hand to Foggy's shoulder. "Enough for tonight. Tomorrow, we'll tackle escaping from multiple opponents."

* * *

The thug with the wheezing breath who smelled of bacon grease and too much Aqua Velva was following him again, Matt thought darkly as he left the library. Leaving off his glasses hadn't deterred his tail in the slightest, so after a few days, he'd gone back to wearing them. Not for the first time, he wondered what Fisk was waiting for. It had been nearly three weeks since the hearing and Fisk still hadn't made his move. Matt realized that he was tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was time to speed things along.

He ducked into an alley, walked about halfway through, and waited. Sure enough, it wasn't long before he heard the familiar footfalls. He crouched behind a dumpster.

The man was swearing under his breath and his heartbeat was faster than it should have been from such minimal exertion. Matt smiled. The thug was probably under strict orders to keep him under surveillance. If so, he had to be dreading the thought of reporting back to Kingpin that he'd lost his quarry. The man drew closer. He was walking slowly, his head moving from left to right as he looked for some clue as to Matt's whereabouts. Matt waited until the thug was nearly on top of him before he sprang from his hiding place, pushed the guy against the wall, and pressed his cane horizontally against his throat. "You've been following me for weeks," he hissed. "Why?"

His only answer was a panicked wheeze and he pulled the cane away fractionally. "Why?" he demanded a second time.

"Y-you're laboring under a misapprehending, sir. I w-was just taking an alternating route to my destination. I was not cognoscente of your presence in this thoroughfare."

Matt pressed his cane harder again. "Do me one favor," he snarled. "When you make your report to Fisk, you tell him that I'm done playing his games. You tell him I've got something to settle with him and I'm coming."

He withdrew his cane and stalked off, leaving the half-dazed thug slumped against the wall and trying to catch his breath. The stench of the man's sweat nearly overpowered the Aqua Velva.


	6. Chapter 6

References: Daredevil Vol 1. #228

**Chapter 6**

Matt didn't need vision to guess the look on Foggy's face.

"You did what?"

He shrugged. "I told the guy who's been shadowing me to pass on a message."

"Oh." Foggy said with poorly-feigned nonchalance. "Well, just so long as you keep the element of surprise, I guess that's okay."

"I didn't have that to start with," Matt pointed out. "Kingpin's been more than a step ahead of me for months. He's been rattling my chains, keeping me on edge, leaving me wondering what's going to happen next..." His voice hardened. "I'm tired of it. Maybe it's time _he_ started worrying a little."

Foggy was silent for several long minutes. Finally, he ventured, "Matt... we're talking about a guy who... who made a few phone calls and completely wrecked your life. Do you really think his knowing you're on your way is going to shake him up?"

Matt's jaw clenched. "If he's smart," he said through gritted teeth. He smiled grimly. "It may have taken me too long to add it all up. And once I did, I know it took me more time to get my head together. But these last couple of weeks at the gym, I've been feeling it all fall into place again. I think I need another night or two... and then I'll be ready to make my move."

Foggy exhaled. "Whatever you say, Matt," he said dubiously. "Whatever you say."

* * *

That night, Foggy watched as Matt attacked a heavy bag with fists, feet, and billy-club. He wasn't just boxing anymore, though he was landing some solid punches. His feet moved back and forth in a triangular pattern that almost seemed like a dance. Then, he flipped to his hands. At first, Foggy thought that he was about to turn a cartwheel, but then, Mat twisted his hips, and delivered a powerful split-kick to the heavy bag. The bag rocked, the chain creaked, and a light shower of plaster dust fell from the ceiling. "Uh... Matt?"

"I know." Matt sounded annoyed. He moved to a free-standing bag. "I've been noticing a problem for the last week or so."

"Then why keep using that bag?"

Matt shrugged and settled back into that weird triangular dance again. "I like that bag. When I first started sneaking in here at night, that's the one I gravitated toward. Almost feels like an old friend." He directed a savage high kick at the belly of the new bag. Foggy winced.

"Nice to know how you treat your old friends."

Matt balanced on one foot and kicked out again, hitting with the entire sole of his other foot. The bag swayed. "You're not old," he smiled.

"I'd like to get there one day," Foggy retorted. He watched a bit longer. "That doesn't look like WBA standard," he said after several moments.

"It's not," Matt replied. "Well, not entirely. I'm working capoeira and a few kick-boxing techniques into the mix." He sighed. "Kingpin's fast, strong, and in a higher weight class. I won't beat him with Marquess of Queensberry rules. I need to wear him down by using moves he won't expect."

"Like he did with you," Foggy said shrewdly, as Matt delivered another one of those split-kick cartwheels.

Matt bounced back on his feet and spun back to face him. "Excuse me?"

Foggy shrugged. "He found out who you are and he attacked you with the tools of that trade. He didn't show up at Nelson and Murdock to punch your lights out or throw you out the window. He came at you through the IRS and the legal system. And now, you're going after him with your fists."

"What else can I do?" Matt asked, walking back across the floor and taking a seat next to Foggy. "On the surface, there is nothing to connect Wilson Fisk with any criminal activity. I know. I've looked. I know he's up to his neck in it, but I can't prove it and even if I could, even if _we_ could, he's got his hooks into too many people." He shook his head and reached down for a bottle of water. "I went to see Nick Manolis when I found out that he was going to testify against me—"

"You what?" Foggy demanded. "Matt, you _know_ better than—"

"As Daredevil," Matt snapped. "Obviously, it was before I knew Kingpin was involved." He frowned. "He was drunk. Not just 'had a couple of beers before I showed up'. Unsteady, lurching on his feet... I surprised him in his kitchen. He told me to leave."

"There's a shocker," Foggy said, but without the heat in his voice that had been there a moment ago.

"I was confused. I know Manolis. We've worked together before. I know... knew that he wasn't on the take. He was a good cop, a decent man... I needed to understand why he was prepared to testify before the grand jury that I'd bribed that witness."

"Okay," Foggy replied. "I get that. What happened?"

"He got angry. He was holding a bottle and he smashed it against the counter. It broke. I could tell it was beer from the smell."

"Gotcha," Foggy nodded. "Okay, smashing the bottle seems a little extreme, but I guess if he was already drunk, like you say, it could have made him aggressive. Then what?"

"He attacked me with the broken bottle. I defended myself. It wasn't hard. He was angry, but the alcohol made him slow, sluggish... I slammed him into his kitchen table, more to knock some sense into him than to actually hurt him. He told me to leave again and I knew he wasn't going to tell me what I needed to know to my face, so I left... but I didn't go far. There was a ledge outside his window. I waited to see what he'd do next. He made a phone call."

"To...?"

Matt shook his head. "He never said. "What he did say—to whoever was on the other end—was that I'd just been there. He'd been expecting me to show up. Or been warned that I would. Same thing, I guess," he admitted, with a frown. "That wasn't all he said, though. He mentioned that his son needed some treatment soon—treatment Manolis didn't have the money for. He was ready to say whatever they wanted at the hearing in exchange for the funds to pay for it."

Foggy sucked in his breath. "Great. So you overheard him admitting that he was going to lie, but you couldn't prove it in any way that would stand up in court."

"Exactly," Matt sighed. "I didn't have a tape recorder on me. Even if I did have one, if the mike had been sensitive enough to pick up Manolis's conversation, it would have also picked too much background noise to be coherent. Outside, there was wind and traffic. Inside, he had loud music playing. It created enough interference that I couldn't hear the voice on the other end, and my ears pick up more than any recording mike I might have carried."

"And even if you had, somehow been able to record it," Foggy groaned, "it would have been inadmissible under the Federal Wiretap Act in the first place. You would have needed one of those two parties to consent to your taping it." He sighed. "This time, I don't blame you for not mentioning this to me before. It would have left me about as frustrated as it left you."

"Thanks," Matt said, not sarcastically, but sincerely. "Anyway, Kingpin knows who to enlist and which buttons to push to get them to do what he wants. We're not going to beat him at that game, so I'm going to have to challenge him to mine. And win." He gave Foggy a tired smile. "Give me another twenty minutes. I want to hit the free weights. Then, we'll go over a few more defensive tactics. Sound good?"

"Sure," Foggy smiled back. His smile dropped away as Matt got up and headed for the weights area. "Just be careful, Matt. I don't think Kingpin's done pushing your buttons, yet. You could be playing right into his hands."

Although he spoke in an undertone, he was sure that his best friend had heard him, but Matt never broke stride or turned around.

* * *

"You're really going through with this," Foggy stated two days later. "You're just going to waltz into Fisk's office and beat him to a pulp."

"He'll be expecting Daredevil to break into his home to threaten him," Matt pointed out. "He won't be expecting Matt Murdock to show up unannounced at his place of business. He'll assume I'm going after him through the court system and I'm coming to give him one last opportunity to come clean. He'll be curious to know why I think I stand a snowball's chance against him, curious enough to hear me out. The one thing he won't be expecting will be an attack. There's my edge. I beat him, he gives me my life back, and we go on from there."

Foggy frowned.

"You don't think I can do it," Matt said flatly.

"I... I don't honestly know," Foggy admitted. "But it seems to me you're presupposing a lot, here. Fisk didn't make a move on you until he had everything in place and, I'm sorry to say, Matt, he trapped you very neatly when your back was turned. Why would you assume he's no longer interested in you now? He's had you followed for weeks, for crying out loud."

For a moment, Matt's face fell and Foggy thought that he might actually be getting through to him. Then his expression hardened. "I'm not just going to give up, roll over, and play dead, Foggy. And, while I appreciate everything you've been doing," he placed a hand on Foggy's shoulder, "more than you'll ever know," he added, "I can't just... stay here, living off of your savings, while you sleep on the sofa in your own home."

"It's just until we deal with the IRS," Foggy pointed out. "And I don't mind."

"I do." Matt shook his head. "Besides," he sighed, "we both know that this isn't going to get resolved overnight. It might take months. Maybe years. I can't stay here that long."

"Fine, but you don't have to move out right now," Foggy shot back. "And you don't have to deal with Fisk right now, either. Wait him out. He's not going to have people tailing you forever. Sooner or later, he is going to get tired of it. That's when you go after him."

Matt shook his head once more. "This has gone on long enough. It ends today." He smiled. "It'll be okay, Foggy. I've got a plan, now. I know what I have to do." He got his coat from the closet and pulled it on. "I'll see you later."

The door closed behind him with an ominous note of finality. Foggy sighed. Then he went to his filing cabinet and pulled out a bulging folder containing all the data relevant to a case that had consumed his waking hours for over six weeks. Matt's. Assuming that Matt was right and his play was successful, Foggy wanted to be sure that all bases would be covered, all ramifications considered. Matt had praised his attention to detail. Foggy meant to keep meriting that reputation.

After three quarters of an hour though, he shoved the folder away with a sigh. He couldn't concentrate when he was this worried, and he wasn't going to stop being worried until Matt came back, safe and sound. Meanwhile, he wasn't doing anyone much good by pretending to look at documents that might end up being irrelevant, assuming Matt was successful.

...Assuming Matt was successful in his attempt to get his life back by walking directly into the headquarters of an archenemy, a building that had to be crawling with security, to confront head-on a man with serious connections on both sides of the law, who had—from the sound of things—managed to utterly wreck Matt's world with a few well-placed telephone calls.

Outside the window, the sun was setting. Foggy shook his head silently. He wasn't sure whether it was morbid curiosity that made him get his own coat and head to his car. He told himself that even if Matt won, he'd probably appreciate having a lift back and not needing to brave the subways, assuming he even had the fare on him. He ignored the voice in his head that tried to remind him that if Matt could take out the Kingpin, the subway wasn't going to be a major hurdle. He just knew that sitting and waiting was worse than going out after Matt. Maybe there wasn't anything that he could actually do, but a drive down to Fisk Industries would make him feel better, all the same.

He made sure to lock his door before taking the elevator down to the parking garage.

* * *

Matt had walked the last twenty blocks to Fisk Industries. One final brisk workout to warm up for the coming confrontation. Besides, there was only so much he could take of the cacophony of heavy metal songs leaking out from over a dozen radio headphones. He could handle bitter cold and long walks far better than he could echoing tunnels and discordant... well, he knew that _some_ people called it music, though he considered it a stretch.

It was nearly six when he reached his destination. For the first time, it occurred to him that the main doors might be locked, but they slid open automatically at his approach. Running his fingers quickly over the directory with its engraved metal nameplates told him the floor he needed. He crossed the foyer, listening for the faint hum that would tell him where the elevators were located.

There was a security guard at the desk, Matt could hear him breathing. He debated making some excuse about needing to pick something up from one of the offices, but then he heard the sound of a pen making a brief scratch on a piece of paper. "Good evening, Mr. Murdock," the guard greeted him. "You want office 2500. Go right on up. Elevator's to your left."

It was Matt's first inkling that things were not going to go according to plan. He squelched the small doubt ruthlessly. Of course, Kingpin knew he was coming. He'd had people following him for weeks. His latest tail had probably phoned in as soon as Matt's destination had become clear. He smiled and murmured his thanks to the guard.

Arriving at the twenty-fifth floor, he was greeted again—this time by a receptionist with a warm smile in her voice, who held the door for him. "Come right in, Mr. Murdock," she said. "Mr. Fisk is expecting you." She led him down a long hallway past evenly-spaced potted reed palms. She held another door open for him without a word.

He didn't need eyesight to know that he was in a gym. His radar sense gave him the contours of various large pieces of fitness equipment and free-weight racks—not to mention the two basketball hoops at opposite ends of the room, but there was also an odor of stale perspiration that no amount of disinfectant would ever eradicate and the edge of the thin exercise mat that his feet touched when he walked three paces into the room. There would be no basketball today.

Kingpin was standing several yards away, his back to Matt. He waited until Matt had nearly cut the gap between them in half before he turned. He uttered no word. He simply stood, waiting.

Matt held his ground, mentally sizing up his adversary. Fisk was calm. He didn't know why that perturbed him. Fisk was always calm, always deliberate. It was his stance. Kingpin was standing, barefoot, clad only in a pair of briefs, arms down, hands a bit more than shoulder distance apart, feet spread, wordlessly inviting Matt to take his best shot.

That was his first mistake, Matt told himself, as he lifted his cane and swung it two-handed into his enemy's mid-section. It hit Fisk's belly with an impact that jarred both of his arms, but didn't even stagger Fisk. He dodged, sliding under Fisk's counter-attack and surging upwards to bring his cane down hard on the bridge of Fisk's nose. There was a satisfying "thwack" and the smell of hot blood filled the air. Fisk snarled and Matt struck out once more, swinging his cane into the side of Fisk's skull.

The cane broke.

Matt crouched low, preparing for another attack, but Fisk was moving now, faster than he had a right to, after sustaining those hits. He should have been reeling. He should have been dazed.

He'd been toying with him.

As the realization struck, so did Fisk, seizing him by one arm. Matt swung what was left of his cane into Fisk's shoulder, but the blow glanced off. And then a massive fist plowed into Matt's abdomen and he would have fallen to the ground if Fisk hadn't kept hold of his arm, yanking him off of his feet. He let go and Matt fought to keep his footing. A right cross to the jaw knocked him heavily to the mat. For the briefest instant, Matt considered succumbing to the unconsciousness that threatened to claim him—a deeper darkness than the one he habitually lived with—but that would have been a betrayal of everything he stood for. It would have been a betrayal of his father's last charge. And so, Matt fought to raise himself from the ground, to rally enough strength for another swing. He wasn't sure whether he actually spoke his defiance or merely thought it.

"_Never give up... Never..."_

His world exploded in pain and he knew no more.

* * *

The Kingpin looked down at Murdock, noted that his foe was still breathing, and smiled. It wouldn't do at all for Murdock to expire here, in an office where respectable business people met and respectable business was carried out. No, there must be nothing to tie Murdock's demise to Wilson Fisk or Fisk Enterprises.

He walked over to the wall phone. "Have you procured the taxicab? And the driver? You have him in a secure area? Very well. Eliminate him. I'm sending down the necessary weapon now. Ensure that you wear gloves when handling." Murdock groaned. Kingpin paused for a moment in his instructions, but when the man gave no other sign of coming around, he pulled his attention back to the conversation. "When that deed has been carried out, report back here with Topper. Give the weapon to Kirkland. Ensure that _he_ is also wearing gloves. He and Fuller are to go to the following address..." He gave it from memory, "...Apartment 5B. They should find within one Franklin P. Nelson. They are to make certain of this before proceeding further. Once they have ensured that he is, in fact, within, using the same weapon, they are to eliminate Nelson and anyone else whom they might find there. If Nelson is not present, they are to take no action. Report back to me when they return. Is that understood? Excellent."

He smiled down at the unconscious man before him. "There will be no questions about your death, Murdock. No investigations. Well. I suppose that someone might wonder what would entice a blind man to get behind the wheel of a checker cab after beating its owner to death, but there will be no reason to pursue that line of questioning. It will simply be chalked up as one of life's little mysteries. Perhaps," he said with a soft chuckle, as he reached into a supply locker and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, "they will blame the alcohol..."

* * *

Parked across the street from Fisk Industries, Foggy got out of his car and put another quarter into the meter. He'd been waiting for nearly an hour and there was no sign of Matt. He wondered whether Matt had ever even got there. Perhaps he'd thought things through on his way over, realized that confronting Kingpin now wouldn't be the wisest course of action, and was even now, back at the apartment, waiting patiently for Foggy to return. It was a nice idea, anyway.

Waiting in a car was just as nerve-wracking as waiting at home, he decided. He debated whether to stay put, drive back, or get out of the car. What would Matt do? He knew the answer to that one, but then, Matt was Daredevil. Matt was likely to do many things, not all of which were courses of action Foggy should consider emulating. He closed his eyes. He'd gotten himself into this in the first place because he couldn't turn his back on a friend. "In for a penny, in for a pound," he muttered, as he got out of his car.

He stole a look at the building directory and smiled. As he'd expected, there were several offices that had nothing to do with Fisk Industries, apart from renting space—including a familiar law firm.

"May I help you, sir?" a uniformed security guard asked from behind his desk.

Foggy nodded. "I'm with Patterson, Harris, and McCormack," he said, giving the name of the firm where he'd interned during his JD program. "I'm supposed to pick something up from Solly Brownstein's office in 1400. He said he'd leave it at the desk, if he wasn't in."

"I'll call up," the guard said. "Name?"

There was no way that Foggy was going to give his real name. Not when Kingpin knew where Matt had been staying. "It's um..." he smiled, "Michael Franklin, but I don't think they'll know it. Just the name of the firm." He walked toward the elevator and quickly pressed the button.

"Sir, you can't..."

The door opened and Foggy was about to step inside when he realized that the car was occupied. There were three men inside. One's head was down. There was blood on his shirt, he reeked of cheap whiskey, and he was being supported by the other two. Foggy thought he might be passed out. "Goin' down, Mac," one of the men said. "Yeah, sorry," Foggy mumbled. "I can see..." The doors shut again as his heart plummeted to his stomach. He'd recognized the clothes, even if he hadn't been able to see the middle guy's face. That had been Matt!

"Sir!" The guard was approaching him now. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's nobody answering the phone in the office. I can't let you up at this hour unless someone vouches for you."

Foggy shook his head, barely listening. "That's okay," he mumbled. "I'll call in the morning." He nearly ran out of the building.

* * *

He was shaking as he got back into his car. What was he supposed to do now? Calling the police was an option, but if that elevator had been going down, if the Fisk building was like most others, then there would be a parking garage on the lower level. If they were trying to get Matt out of the building, they could be gone while Foggy was on the phone. Cops would probably ask him a bunch of questions he didn't have time to answer, too. Had Matt even been breathing? He closed his eyes, squared his shoulders and, although he didn't consider himself a particularly religious man, thought a quick prayer to whoever might be listening. Then he opened his eyes once more, started the engine, and put the car into drive. He circled the building slowly, looking for a garage door or a loading dock, some way that those men might be leaving—if they hadn't already gone while Foggy had been trying to decide what to do next!

There _was_ a garage door on the opposite side. As Foggy watched, the door rose slowly and a cube van drove out. The passenger window rolled down and a hand tossed a lit match out of the cab. Before the window rolled up again, Foggy got a good look at man in the seat. It was the same one who had announced that the elevator was going down.

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he followed the van toward the East River.

* * *

At Pier 41, the van stopped. Foggy found a place to park, then slipped out of his car and cautiously edged closer. There were a number of wooden crates and barrels nearby and he crouched next to them, trying to lose himself among them. As he watched, the back of the van opened and the two men let down a ramp from the back of the truck that ended just at the edge of the pier. Then, they walked up the ramp and disappeared into the van. From Foggy's angle, he couldn't tell exactly what they were doing, but a moment later, a yellow checker cab rolled slowly down the ramp until it was halted by the safety chain surrounding the pier's perimeter. His eyes narrowed. Was it just his imagination, or were the metal posts pitching slightly forward as the taxicab's front bumper strained against the chain? There was a figure in the driver's seat of the cab, slumped over, not moving. Foggy's heart sounded like a drum solo in his chest. Matt. It had to be Matt. Now, was there some way that he could get to the taxicab without being spotted?

A beam of light shone into his eyes and he yelped as a meaty hand clamped down on his neck, pulled him forward, and let him drop to the ground. "I told you we were followed!" a harsh voice snapped. For a moment, he lay on the slushy pier. Then the guy with the flashlight reached down, grabbed his wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and hauled him to his feet.

It occurred to Foggy that he'd asked Matt to teach him exactly how to get out of situations like this. What if they were armed, though? What if his struggle to get away ended with his getting shot? And what if his tactics failed and all he managed to do was get these people mad? He offered no resistance as his captor pushed him closer to the van and the cab.

"Who've you got, Topper?" the second man asked. He frowned. "I recognize you. You're that guy from the lobby. Who are you? What's your stake in this?"

Foggy pressed his lips together and tried to assume a defiant expression.

The other man shrugged. "Fine. We'll do this the hard way. Hold him, Topper." A moment later, Foggy's wallet was in the other man's hand. He rifled through it and blinked. "Franklin Nelson, eh? Well isn't _this_ a coincidence. We've got a couple of people out looking for you right now." He glanced over Foggy's shoulder.

"Don't let go of him, Topper. I'm going to see how the boss wants to handle this."

Foggy watched as the other man walked briskly toward a phone booth. He entered, made a call, and spoke briefly. Then he came back, a grim smile on his face. "We don't do anything yet," he said. "Not to him, not to Murdock. Kirkland and Fuller are on their way over with the cane. Boss wants Nelson eliminated first, then Murdock. We just gotta hold him until they get here."

"Got it."

There was a creaking sound. The metal posts that supported the safety chain were definitely straining forward now. Before Foggy's horrified eyes, the cab rolled another inch closer to the river.

His blood ran cold. Why would Kingpin want to be sure that he died before they pushed Matt into the river? The thug had said something about a cane...? _Matt's cane!_ That had to be it. They weren't just going to kill Matt, they were going to make it look as though Matt had killed him. But in order to do that, they had to wait for the cane to arrive here. They had to keep him alive until then. Which meant... _They couldn't shoot him._ They. Could. Not. Shoot. Him. Foggy smiled. Then, just as Matt had taught him, he turned into the hammerlock and delivered a powerful kick to his captor's knee.

There was a sickening crunch and Topper screamed a profanity as he released Foggy and fell to the pavement, clutching his knee.

Foggy didn't hesitate. The instant he was loose, he ran for the cab, knowing that the other man would be on top of him in a moment. Then he heard the last sound he wanted to hear. The creak-and-snap of rusting metal as it gave way. Taxicab, chain, and support poles plunged into the East River.

For a moment, Foggy stood, frozen in horror. Then running footsteps behind him galvanized him into action. He turned and looked about wildly for a way out. No good. He was trapped between Kingpin's goons and the East River. He was a dead man. Either way, he was a dead man. But, he thought to himself grimly, nobody was pinning this on Matt!

He ran toward the edge of the pier. How far down was it? Could he survive the fall? How long could he last in the water? Damn it, he was still a young man. He didn't want to die.

The other thug was nearly on top of him now. He turned to face him. It wasn't courage or even bravado. It was the realization that if he faced the river, he was probably going to freeze up and stay where he was. As it was, years later, when he recalled this moment, he would never be completely certain whether he jumped back or simply slipped on the slushy, icy, asphalt as he tumbled off the pier and into the murky depths of the river below.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks to the folks at Livejournal's Little_Details community for advice on medical treatment for falling into polluted water and hypothermia. Although I have, for the most part, been trying to keep this story set in 1986 with regard to technology (Kingpin's goons calling from pay phones instead of carrying cells, for example), I'm introducing one bit of anachronistic detail here. Today, many advance-practice nurses can prescribe medication (Source: "The Only Thing that Truly Separates Doctors from Nurses" by Shirie Leng, MD, appearing on Medpage Today's _KevinMD_ blog for April 3, 2013). I do not believe that this was true in 1986, when Frank Miller wrote _Born Again_. It may have been true in 2004, when the Night Nurse made her first appearance in Daredevil canon (Volume 2, #58) in Bendis's _King of Hell's Kitchen_ arc. However, as there has never been any indication that there is a doctor making rounds at the Night Nurse's clinic, and as we have canon support for Matt being given prescription-strength painkillers by the Night Nurse (Volume 2, #58 again!), I'm using it.

References: Daredevil, Volume 1, Nos. 16–17.

**Chapter 7**

Foggy felt the cold December night air whistle past him as he plunged toward the East River. The wind ripped into him like an icy blade and the odors of rotting fish and sewage rose to assault him. The surface of the water felt like concrete when he hit and then the water accepted him, wrapped around him, poured over him, into his coat sleeves, down his collar, into his boots, numbing him, freezing him. He was dead. He was dead, he was dead, he was...

...Jerked abruptly upwards by something snagged on the back of his coat. His stomach lurched as his feet stopped treading water and started churning air. He thought something might have wrapped around his waist, but it was night and his vision was blurry from the water and he was cold and soaked to the skin, so maybe he wasn't thinking all that clearly. The wind tore at him again. He gasped and started to cough. And then, he was sitting on hard ground and someone bending over him in... Was that a wet-suit? He blinked his bleary eyes and tried to focus, even as he started to shiver. No. The suit was black and form-fitting, but its white eyes and the spider symbol on its chest told him that it was no wet-suit.

"Are you all right?" his rescuer asked. "Here's a tip for you: next time you want to go swimming in the dead of winter, try an indoor pool."

Foggy started to reply, but was seized by another coughing fit.

"Hey," Spider-Man said, sounding a good deal more concerned than he had a second ago. "Hey, are you okay?" He slapped a hand to his forehead. "No, of course you're not okay. You just took a dive into the East River in the middle of an Arctic cold snap. I'd better get you to a hospital."

"N-no!" Foggy gasped. "N-no, you've g-g-gotta save M-M-Matt!" His arms felt like they weighed a ton, but he struggled to clap his hands to Spider-Man's shoulders. "K-Kingpin," he said, struggling to make himself understood.

Spider-Man tensed. "What? Wait..." He drew marginally closer. "You look familiar. Did I ever...?" He sucked in his breath. "I remember. I yanked you out a window once, because I thought you were..." He took another breath. "You just said 'Matt'. Matt... Murdock?"

Foggy nodded emphatically. "Down there," he jerked his head toward the water and hoping that Spider-Man could still understand him through his chattering teeth. "In a taxi. Kingpin had it dumped off the pier. He... he knows."

Spider-Man flinched. "Knows? You mean...?" He took a deep breath. "Okay. You said he was in a taxi. Were the windows rolled up?"

"What?" Foggy couldn't believe this. "Why are you asking me all this? Why aren't you going after him?"

"Listen to me," Spider-Man said, his voice cutting through Foggy's anger like a whip. "I just fished you out of an ice bath. You need to get warm fast. If the taxi's windows were up, that buys us some time and I can get you to a hospital and then come back here with a flashlight, blankets... maybe some other stuff. If they weren't..." He hesitated.

"Go on."

"I..."

Foggy dug his fingernails into the black costume. "If. They. Weren't?"

Spider-Man shook his head. "Nothing. I still get you to the nearest hospital now and... And I come back to see if I can... but... Look. You... you were just in that water. I'm not going to risk leaving you out here—not when it might kill you—not if there's a good chance that..."

_...That Matt was already dead._

Foggy closed his eyes. "I wasn't close enough to see the windows," he admitted. "But..."

Spider-Man gripped Foggy's arms with both hands. "Let me get you to a medical center; there's one close by that won't ask you a bunch of hard questions and will give me those supplies. He's my friend, too, you know. I won't give up until I know for sure. "

"Yeah."

Spider-Man slid an arm around his torso. "Are you okay with heights?"

Hang on a minute, Foggy thought. "Wh-what?"

"You don't see me cruising around the city in a car, do you? If you get dizzy, close your eyes."

Foggy sighed. "Th-that photographer who always snaps your picture for the _Bugle _isn't anywhere around right now, is he? Because if I see any photos of this in the paper tomorrow, I'll..."

"Yeah, you're a lawyer, right? Guess you'd know if you could make a case stick. Anyway," he said, lifting Foggy effortlessly over one shoulder, "don't worry." There was an odd note in his voice that sounded almost like amusement to Foggy. "If Peter Parker's out there tonight, I'll talk to him," he said. "Because," he went on, "as much as I'd like to see someone sue the pants off of Jameson, it'd probably end up costing the guy his job and I know he needs the money."

* * *

He kept his eyes closed for most of the trip, although there wasn't much he could do about his stomach feeling every rise and dip. He tried to convince himself that he was on a roller coaster—no, that he was _safer_ than being on a roller coaster. He was trembling because he was freezing, not because he was terrified. He was... He was so glad that he hadn't had supper before he'd driven off in search of Matt.

"We're here," Spider-Man announced finally. "Just put your feet down." And Foggy realized that Spidey was bending forward, that his legs were currently gripping Spidey's torso, and complied. Almost immediately, his knees buckled, but Spidey was holding on to him and keeping him upright. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was standing in some kind of waiting room, in front of a large desk with a woman in a white nurse's uniform seated behind it. There was nobody else in the room, which was odd. Emergency rooms were never this empty.

The nurse gave them a once-over and her hand moved to the edge of her desk. A tone sounded once. "We can take it from here, Spider-Man," she said. "From the looks of things, the paperwork can wait. I'll assume you have a good reason for bringing him to us?"

"I'll fill in the blanks when I get back, Nurse," he said. "For right now, I need the best flashlight you've got and a bunch of blankets. Stick 'em in a garbage bag or something so they stay dry."

The door behind the desk opened and another nurse approached pushing a wheelchair. "Sir?"

"Looks like your carriage waits," Spidey said, helping the nurse to bundle him in.

"Find Matt," Foggy mumbled. His tongue was feeling heavy and his words were slurring, so he wasn't sure if he was making sense, but Spidey nodded.

"I will. Stay warm."

As the second nurse wheeled him off, Foggy could hear Spider-Man reiterating his need for the supplies.

* * *

They undressed him and wrapped him in an electric blanket until his teeth stopped chattering and his heart stopped pounding. Then, while he downed a cup of far-too-sweet hot chocolate, one of the nurses finally got around to asking him his name and why Spider-Man had brought him here.

As soon as he told them that Spidey had fished him out of the East River, they practically threw him into a decontamination shower. The cascading water stung, but the caustic soap was worse. About the only thing that kept him from running away screaming was that they had his clothes and, as bad as swimming in the East River was, streaking through Lower Manhattan in the dead of winter couldn't be all that much better. After the shower, they pumped his stomach. By then, he was beginning to understand what people meant when they talked about the cure being worse than the disease. His understanding deepened after they stabbed a needle into his thigh that felt like a kick from a horse.

"You don't know how lucky you are," one of the nurses said when he was finally permitted to put on a set of surgical scrubs and a bathrobe and wheeled to a cot. "A fall from the pier could have broken a few bones if it didn't kill you. And if you'd gone into that water with any cuts or abrasions..." She let her voice trail off ominously. "But, as I said, Mr. Nelson," her voice turned gentle, "you were lucky. Now rest. You've been through a lot tonight, but I think you're past the worst."

Sleep wasn't going to be hard. He was exhausted from his ordeal. But... "Did... Did Spider-Man come back?"

The nurse frowned. "I'm sorry. I don't know. I can try to find out for you."

"Do you know if anyone else has been brought in?"

"I'm sorry," the nurse said again. "That would be confidential. Rest."

"Spider-Man?"

"I'll ask. You rest."

_Rest_. They must have given him something to make him drowsy, or else he was finally crashing from an adrenaline high, because even though he tried to stay awake until the nurse returned, his eyelids lowered and he sank into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, it was morning and he ached everywhere. When he turned his head, he found that he wasn't alone. Spider-Man, looking somewhat comical in a hospital-issue bathrobe sat in a corner chair, reading a magazine.

Foggy cleared his throat. "New costume?"

Spidey set the magazine down. "I've had it for a little while. Usually, I just wear it at ni—" He glanced down as though suddenly aware of what he was wearing. "Oh! You mean the... no," He chuckled. "No, it..." He paused. "It seems that if you dive into the East River, even if it's for a good reason, the nice ladies here insist on treating you for possible shock, hypothermia, bubonic plague... but I guess you know all that, huh?"

Foggy's lips twitched. Spider-Man seemed far too relaxed to be the bearer of bad news, but he still needed to hear what had happened. He struggled to sit up. "Is Matt...?"

"He's here. They were working on him, but he was in pretty bad shape when I found him." He shook his head. "He looked like he'd been run over by a Mack truck. What happened?"

"Um..." How much had Matt told him? "I..."

Spider-Man sighed. "Okay. Last night, you said that Kingpin knows. Just to make sure we're on the same page, I'm guessing he knows that Matt Murdock has a thing for red leather and billy clubs?"

Foggy nodded.

"Oh, jeez. Fine. What _can_ you tell me? I heard about his house blowing up a few weeks ago. I thought it might have been a gas main, but I'm guessing now it wasn't?"

"No," Foggy let out a long breath. "We don't... Matt's been trying to figure out how he got the information, but a few months ago, he—Matt—got a summons to appear before a grand jury on a charge of bribing a witness to perjure himself. This is public record; it was in the papers, so I'm pretty comfortable sharing that part. It's also completely untrue. Almost at the same time, his bank notified him that he'd missed two mortgage payments. That was also untrue."

"Uh... Reverend?" Spidey said, sounding embarrassed, "I'm the choir. The congregation's thataway." He waved toward the opposite wall.

Foggy gave him a pained smile. Then he took another breath and let it out. "By the time Matt called me about helping him with the grand jury," he continued, "which he did the next morning, it was from a pay phone. His own had been disconnected. As was his power. More missing payments he knew he'd made. Oh, and the IRS was investigating him for tax fraud. It still is, which means that his assets are currently frozen. It was a bunch of things, all of them adding up, wearing him down. It made it hard for him to focus on the upcoming hearing. I did my best—which was good enough to keep him out of prison, but not good enough to keep him from getting disbarred."

"Oh... sheesh." Spider-Man shook his head. "That's..."

"Yeah. On the one hand, I know I did everything I could, but on the other hand... anyway, after a day like that, I just... I couldn't bring myself to go home and see what was on TV and put the hearing out of my mind, you know?" It felt good to talk about this, but he knew he had to be careful. Just because Spidey happened to know that Matt was Daredevil didn't mean that he knew everything else. Matt definitely hadn't confided to him what had been going on, which made Foggy wonder just how much Matt would want Spidey to know now. "While I was on my way over with the pizzas, Matt's house blew up. I found him next to the rubble holding the remains of his costume. He's been staying with me ever since."

"Wow. And Kingpin...?"

Foggy sighed. "Look, don't get upset, but maybe you should talk to Matt about that one." He frowned. "You said he was in bad shape. What does that mean?"

Spidey sighed. "I'm not exactly a medical expert, but I guess I don't need to be to recognize when someone's been beaten to a pulp. I can't believe he lasted as long as he did."

Foggy's frown deepened. "Wait. You led me to believe he'd have enough air in there for you to chance getting me here and going back. Or was that just a trick to get me to go quietly?"

Spider-Man shook his head. "No, it wasn't a trick. It's just that when I took that dive—and I'm glad you told me that the car had just been run off the pier; it meant I had a pretty good idea of where to start searching—I found the taxi pretty fast. There was a hole in the window big enough to paddle a canoe through."

"Oh my G..." His mouth was suddenly dry. "B-but you said..."

"It was smashed from the _inside_. From what I could tell, it looked like he was strapped into the driver's seat and couldn't get the belt open. He smashed the window, cut himself free with a glass shard, and started swimming. If I'd waited about a minute more, I probably would've been there to see him surface and I could have saved myself an ice bath. And a decon shower."

"Sorry. If I'd known he could get out on his own, I..."

Spidey half rose from the chair. "Hey. Whoa, whoa, whoa! First of all, unlike you or me, he was bleeding, whether from that Mack truck or reasonable facsimile thereof, or from the glass, or both. Swimming in the East River with an open cut just about guarantees some kind of infection. Second of all, he probably swallowed some of that water on his way up. Third of all, he was injured, disoriented, and freezing. Fourth of all? Given the all the stuff he can normally do, I don't know if his little vision problem would interfere with his ability to find the shore under normal circumstances, but with everything else? I am very glad that I happened to be patrolling by the waterfront last night."

"Uh...yeah." He felt his face grow hot. "I... I didn't thank you for saving my life yet, did I?"

There was a pause. "First time or second time?"

"Huh?"

"Well, there was that time I yanked you out of a window and didn't let you go 'splat'—even though I thought I was mad at you. Well, I was really mad at Daredevil. At least... I thought it was Daredevil, but it turned out to be some crook disguised as Daredevil who attacked me and then I found the real Daredevil and attacked him and then I tracked him back to your office where I... seriously underestimated the blind guy. But _technically _speaking, I did save your life."

"Technically speaking, it wouldn't have needed saving if you hadn't yanked me out the frigging window!" Foggy snapped.

"Details, details. And..." he let out a long breath, "...one very long overdue apology. I was way out of line. I would have been way out of line, even I'd been right about your being Daredevil."

"Yeah. Well, it was a long time ago." And he'd been scared stiff. "Out of curiosity, how old were you?"

"Then?" The question seemed to surprise him. "Seventeen, maybe eighteen. It was my senior year; that's one thing I'm sure of."

"Ah. Well," Foggy managed a tired smile, "I guess teenagers are allowed to be a little irresponsible sometimes." He frowned. Had he just seen the masked man flinch? "What did I say?"

"N-nothing. Sorry." He got up hastily. "I just... need some coffee. I'll..."

Foggy leaned toward him. "No. Wait. I did say something, didn't I?"

Spider-Man hesitated. "Not really," he replied, but his good cheer sounded forced. "Hey, you want me to grab you a cup, too?"

"Sure. Uh... Spidey?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For telling me about Matt. And... thanks for saving my life. The second time."

Some of the tension seemed to leave the masked hero. "Any time."

Then he was gone, leaving Foggy to puzzle out exactly what had been going on beneath the surface of the conversation.

He returned empty-handed less than five minutes later, seeming a good deal more agitated. Foggy felt his heart sink. "What's happened?"

Spider-Man closed the door gently behind him. "I was walking by the nurse's station. They were talking among themselves. I don't think they knew I was there or knew they were talking loud enough for me to overhear, but..."

"But...?"

Spider-Man hesitated. "From what I could overhear, when I brought him in, he had a couple of broken ribs. One of them punctured a lung. They... they're giving him oxygen now and waiting to see if he'll need a chest tube."

Foggy let out a long breath. "Oh... golly."

Spider-Man sank back down to the chair where he'd been sitting earlier. "Yeah."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I'm still trying to keep the story set in 1986, when _Born Again_ was first written. Although HIPAA was not passed into legislation until 1996, it's probable that an outfit like the Night Nurse's clinic, which caters to costumed heroes with secret identities, would have strong privacy protocols in place. These may or may not line up perfectly with HIPAA procedures. Also, while I have been researching treatments for broken ribs, it is possible that the procedures that I'm describing would not have been commonly used in 1986. If I need an in-universe explanation better than "a wizard did it"? Reed Richards and/or Tony Stark shared some techniques and cutting-edge equipment. Dr. Strange had some input, as well. (In other words, a wizard and two scientists did it!)

References: Daredevil Vol. 1 #229, Vol. 3 #28, Spectacular Spider-Man #107–110.

**Chapter 8**

Foggy took a deep breath. "Okay," he said slowly. "Okay. He's in a hospital. That's the best place to be if there are complications. There are doctors and nurses here who can help, right?"

Spidey nodded slowly. "Well... nurses, anyway. This is a clinic, not a hospital, by the way. We came here because it's close to where I fished you out of the river, plus it's a place known for being friendly to guys like me. And Matt. And... well, a guy who'll go jumping off a pier to save a friend, so I'm pretty sure you'd qualify, too, if anyone asks."

Foggy smiled, feeling for the briefest instant, a warm glow at being included. Then honesty won out and he looked away. "I don't remember if I jumped or slipped," he admitted. "I wasn't exactly thinking straight."

"Well, you wouldn't let me bring you here until you made sure I knew about Matt. You came through loud and clear on that one," Spidey maintained. "That still counts as heroic in my book. And a good thing, I went back for him, too," he added. "He was half-drowned when I fished him out. Lucky thing I know CP..." his voice trailed off. "Oh no. No, no, no..."

"What?"

Even though Spidey's mask covered his face completely, from the sick sound in his voice, Foggy could hazard a guess as to his expression when he said, "CPR... cardio _pulmonary_ resuscitation. Do you... Do you know what that involves?"

"Uh... yeah. Sure. Theoretically," Foggy replied. He'd spent every summer between the ages of ten and sixteen at overnight camp. Although CPR had only been part of the swimming program for senior campers aiming to become certified lifeguards, some of the basics had been taught to the junior campers and weaker swimmers—of which he had been one—as well. Mostly stuff like 'if the drowning victim shows any of the following symptoms, CPR will be necessary. If you can't do it, find someone who can, fast.'

"If the victim isn't breathing... Sorry, I have a hard time thinking of DD as a victim, but... if he isn't breathing, which he wasn't, then the rescuer needs to perform... chest compressions. I... you know I'm a lot stronger than the average guy. My doing that, especially if he already had _cracked _ribs..."

"...Saved his life," a new voice interrupted. Both men turned to see one of the nurses standing in the doorway. The woman, her eyes rimmed with fatigue, gave them a tired smile, as her hand flew to her forehead and pushed back short, blonde bangs. She sighed. "I can't tell either of you the specifics of any patient's case without their permission, but I _can_ talk about treatment and procedures in general terms. So, speaking _generally_," she continued, the corners of her eyes crinkling as her smile grew broader, "if a person were hypothetically fished out of freezing water with severe injuries and was given CPR at the earliest possible time, then even if said person suffered broken ribs as a result, his odds of survival would be far, far better than if he'd been brought to a hospital or clinic DOA and we'd tried to revive him here. This, even though hypothermia would actually work in his favor in our hypothetical scenario, as it slows down a patient's bodily functions, thus minimizing damage to heart and brain." She nodded at Spidey's unvoiced question. "You did the right thing. That doesn't mean that there aren't repercussions, but it does mean that they're likely less severe than if you hadn't done it."

Foggy sat up straighter as Spidey slumped in visible relief. "Can I see him?"

The nurse shook her head. "Not now. They're still working on him and he's heavily sedated. When he regains consciousness, we'll tell him you're here."

"Look, he's my best friend. He's also my client. I'm his lawyer."

The nurse beamed at him. "Then you can appreciate the need for confidentiality," she said.

"I'm his emergency contact."

"Do you have paperwork to support that?"

Foggy groaned. "In my filing cabinet. At home. Wait. His GP... I think it's a Dr. Rivera on West 42nd. Call him. He'll vouch for me."

The nurse's eyebrows shot up. "We can do that. Normally, we'd check ID to make sure you are who you claim to be, but as I understand it, you didn't have any on you when you came in. Is there a security question?"

Foggy groaned again, remembering that Kingpin's thugs had taken his wallet on the Pier. "I don't know, but if I was some... some assassin bent on finishing the job, don't you think I'd be smart enough not to take a dive into the East River chasing after him? Besides, you people are holding my clothes somewhere. Did you find anything in them resembling a high-powered assault rifle?"

The nurse brought a hand to her mouth an instant too late to fully muffle her laughter. "I'll make the call, Mr. Nelson. Meanwhile, rest. Even if that doctor vouches for you, we're going to be working on your friend for a while, yet. Don't count on getting to see him any time soon."

After the nurse left, Foggy turned to Spider-Man. "How long are you hanging around?"

Spidey looked pointedly down at his bathrobe. "I'm stuck here until my duds get back from the laundry and something tells me that they're going to be washing a lot of whites before they get around to solids and colors. Oh." He got up quickly. "Guess you probably want to be alone, though."

Foggy made a face. "Not really. Unless that was a polite way of saying you want to get out of here."

"Dressed like this?" Spidey chuckled. "Not really." He settled back in the chair, half-sitting on the forgotten magazine. He pulled it out from under him and rested it on his lap.

Foggy relaxed. "So, uh..." he cast about for a safe conversation topic, "...When did you find out about Matt?"

Spidey gave up any pretense of going back to reading and tucked the magazine in between the seat cushion and the armrest. "Last summer. I don't know if you remember that Sin-Eater business, but..."

* * *

Statistically, anesthesia awareness is believed to affect 0.2 to 0.4 percent of patients undergoing surgery. It occurs when the patient has been given too little general anesthesia to keep them fully unconscious during the procedure. For the majority of patients in this condition, there is no pain. Approximately one third, however, do report feeling some level of distress ranging from mild discomfort to agony. If no muscle relaxant has been used, the patient is able to move, which alerts the operating staff, who can then administer more anesthetic.

The muscle relaxant was the only reason that Matt wasn't screaming right now. He couldn't make a sound or move a fraction of an inch. All he had were his thoughts and he needed to marshal them, channel them away from his current situation or he was seriously going to lose it and nobody would even realize it. That much, at least, was familiar. Very much like...

_...Another time, another hospital, a different pain..._

_Hard to think of anything except the agony, the terror... It's dark. Too dark and loud and smelly. Why is everyone shouting? How are they even breathing through the stomach-wrenching odors of medications and sweat and he doesn't even want to know what else. He has to think of something different before he loses it and so, he tries to remember how he got here._

_(Why is it so dark, anyway? The sun was shining just a little while ago and it can't be night yet...)_

_He was past the schoolyard, walking down the street as quickly as he could, trying to put some distance between himself and the usual crowd of bullies, Nate Hackett's taunts still ringing in his ears._

_ "Daredevil, scared-devil, wears girl's underwear-devil!"_

_He won't give them the satisfaction of seeing him run, but he has no desire to stick around and keeps to a brisk trot, feet hitting the pavement, because he can't hit Nate and his gang. Can't. Won't. Same difference. He promised Dad. He promised... Wait..._

_Wait, why isn't that truck slowing down? It's going to hit the old man!_

_He remembers the truck, the man, the running leap that almost feels like flying as he springs into action, shoving the pedestrian out of the way. He lands wrong, his ankle buckling under him as he falls to the road, only a few feet in front of the truck. Horns honk and brakes squeal as the other vehicles halt. The truck driver has finally stopped daydreaming but, like the helmsman on the Titanic trying desperately to avoid the iceberg, he turns too late. A single canister dislodges from the truck bed, falling toward Matt and there's no time to avoid it. The canister bounces once and its lid comes off. It bounces once more. And then, the yellow goop is upon him, splashing his face, his __**eyes**__, he's on fire. He's burning up. Instinctively, he tries to wipe away the stuff with his arm, but he can't understand why even though he gets a lot of it off, all he can see is a haze of yellow that slowly fades, leaving him in the dark. The traffic has stopped and he can hear voices, people who have run into the street to help. Where were they a minute ago?_

"_Bravest thing I ever saw! But his face...his eyes..."_

"_That thing that fell from the truck, is it... radioactive?"_

_(It is.)_

"_Look at his face!"_

_What's wrong with his face? __**What's wrong with his eyes?**__ Why does it hurt so much? And why is everyone shouting?_

_He finds his voice, finally, and starts to scream. It feels like his blood is burning, his heart is trying to burst from his chest, everything hurts and he doesn't know where he is. But it smells like chemicals and whatever he's lying on feels like sandpaper and they're cutting into his face and it hurts, it hurts so bad and..._

...And he wasn't fifteen anymore. He'd learned a lot since then: how to manage his heightened senses, how to control his pain. He'd had to. He couldn't move, but he could still think... and breathe... and focus. He pulled his awareness inward. _Focus. Find the center. Find your core. Slowly push your consciousness out, let it expand. Take in your surroundings..._

He was lying down on something more comfortable than asphalt as people surrounded him once more. They talked of medications, vital stats, instruments. They moved quickly and spoke in confident tones. They knew what they were about. Nobody was panicking, so whatever it was that they were doing to him seemed to be proceeding smoothly. And it didn't really hurt that badly now that he had a better idea of what was going on. Nothing like... before. Before... when he lost. When Kingpin beat him. Nothing like that explosion of pain, the wet snap in his chest and the fire of cracked ribs. His chest still hurt somewhat now, and not just because that seemed to be where the... doctors? Yes, he'd call them that for now. ...Where the doctors were concentrating their efforts. They'd cut him there earlier, he realized; he could feel the incision site.

As his calm deepened, he began to make more sense of the conversations. Now he heard terms he recognized: flail chest; punctured lung. He couldn't focus enough to be sure whether they were describing what was wrong with him or what could have happened or what might yet develop and he fought another swelling tide of apprehension. The doctors weren't panicking, he reminded himself. They might not even be talking about him, right now. It could be that they were discussing a similar case when the patient had been in worse shape. Maybe. Steady voices, steady hands... it sounded as though they had things under control. And while he still didn't know where he was, he recognized that it was probably some kind of medical facility. And these people were trying to help. He should probably let them. (Not that he was sure he could stop them in his condition, but it was easier to stay calm if he let himself believe he could.) He could deal with the discomfort while he tried to get his bearings, figure out where he might be from the sounds and smells outside this room... He just had to expand his awareness and allow his senses to sort the data...

"...Normally, just need a local for this. Why did we put him under?"

"Boss-lady put the order in herself. She says numbing the area might not be enough. You want to ask her what she meant?"

"No. I can figure it out. I wonder which one this is."

"Ten bucks says Cap."

"No, I patched Cap up last week. Totally different guy. Fifteen says it's Spider-Man."

"Only if he was brought in by his clone. My money's on Hawkeye."

...If he could have smiled, he would be grinning from ear to ear and not just because of that conversation. Beyond these doctors, maybe fifty yards away, he could hear two voices, two heartbeats, both familiar, both relatively calm. He heard his own name mentioned; Spidey was telling Foggy about the Sin-Eater murders. Matt wondered how much of the record he was going to need to set straight later; Spidey was prone to exaggeration at times. He tried to zone in on their conversation. It was a welcome distraction from whatever was going on with his chest right now.

"He's awake," a woman's voice said sharply.

There was an expletive, quickly swallowed and an order for more anesthetic and a whispered apology from a couple of feet above his left ear. Around the ten o'clock position, Matt thought tiredly.

He heard a flurry of movement as someone approached his head. Much as he would have liked to hear more of what they were saying, he didn't try to resist the sickly-sweet chemical smell when it enveloped him. Already, he seemed removed from the pain in his chest. Maybe when he woke again, it would have vanished entirely...

* * *

It hadn't. He woke up feeling like his torso was on fire, but somehow muffled, as though there were several layers of cotton batting between the pain and his nerves. His upper body was elevated to the point where he was partially sitting up. Any attempt to alter his position was agony. The smells of chemical disinfectants and medications assaulted him. There had been something in his nose earlier; the inside felt as though something had scraped it. He was aware of a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth and a soreness in his forearm, close to the wrist, as though someone had stabbed him with a needle earlier. That... was familiar. In fact, it seemed to happen frequently in hospital settings. If his suspicions were correct...

The jumbled impressions of his radar sense slowly smoothed out, penetrating the haze of sleep and medication. Yes. There was an IV drip next to him. A narrow tube connected the bag to his arm. Well, that would account for the soreness. He wiggled a toe experimentally and was relieved when his radar sense registered the twitch of the bedclothes and he felt the cotton fabric slide over his skin. He was in pain and he couldn't move much, but if he could wiggle his toes, then he doubted that he was paralyzed. Now why was he here...? _Because Kingpin had nearly beaten him to death and the last time he'd had a semi-conscious thought was in an operating room. _Genius. He wondered exactly how badly he'd been hurt and what had been done to patch him up_._

He let his mind drift back to his confrontation with Kingpin. All that training... the gymnastics, the capoeira, the kickboxing... and then, when he'd stood face-to-face with Fisk, he'd tossed it all out the window and tried to bludgeon the man with his billy-club. A groan escaped his lips. He should have known better. He did know better. The first time he'd fought the Kingpin, he'd nearly beaten _himself_ to a pulp charging at nearly 400 pounds of solid muscle. He _knew_ that a direct attack on Fisk was all but doomed to failure. Or, at least, he should have known. Then why...?

Because he'd let his emotions do his thinking instead of his brain. Damn it, it was as if nothing had changed since their first encounter. Then, he'd nearly been down for the count before Fisk had even landed a punch on him and he'd still almost been too stubbornly stupid to break off his attack.

So, just why had he gone for a direct attack when he'd known it was almost certainly doomed to failure? Matt winced as he tried to remember the sequence of events. Fisk hadn't even attempted to defend himself at first. He'd just stood there, unconcerned, making Matt feel like some petty annoyance to be tolerated or dispatched at whim. It had been Fisk's sheer... refusal to view him as a threat that had sent him over the edge. There were visual metaphors for the way that serene arrogance had affected him, Matt reflected. Blind fury, seeing red... He wasn't oblivious to the irony of his using such phrases. But the phrases were accurate, no matter who was using them. He _had_ seen red, figuratively speaking, at least. He _had _attacked blindly—in every sense of the word, not just the obvious. The warnings had been there all along. He'd ignored them. He'd forgotten all of Stick's cautions against self-pity and letting anger make him careless. Hell, Foggy had tried to tell him as much... had it been only yesterday? It was a good thing, he thought dryly, that he was stuck in bed. He wanted to kick himself. _Hard_.

He needed to know how badly he was hurt and he wouldn't know that until he could get out of bed or, at the very least, talk to someone. He started to take a deep breath—and stopped, gasping, as agony stabbed him with white-hot fire. No deep breaths. Not now, anyway. Fine. He thought for a moment. From the pressure around his torso, he guessed that his ribs were splinted. Maybe he was restrained, maybe not. He couldn't move enough to be sure. But his hands were free and that was something. Carefully, his fingers explored the small bit of mattress and bed rails within their reach as he tried to make sense out of the shapes and contours that surrounded him. He allowed himself a triumphant smile when he recognized one such shape: a square box with a round doorbell-like button that protruded slightly—familiar to him from earlier hospital stays. If it was within his grasp, then it was fair to assume he was meant to use it. Only one button meant probably wasn't the bed control panel. However, if he was right about this device, its presence was still most welcome.

He reached for the box—plastic, as it turned out—pressed the call button, smiled when he heard the faint tone sound some thirty yards away, and settled back to wait.

* * *

Rubber-soled shoes on an epoxy floor, a whiff of Castile soap and floral shampoo, and a firm no-nonsense voice that said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Murdock. Nice to see you awake."

Matt managed to smile. "Where...?" His voice was hoarse to his ears and his automatic attempt to sit up straighter nearly made him cry out as his ribs protested.

"Easy," the woman said gently. "I know it probably doesn't feel much like it at the moment, but you're well on the road to recovery." She drew closer. "I'm just going to check a few things, if that's okay."

He nodded. "Who are you? Where am I?" The pain wasn't as severe when he was expecting it, but it was still pretty bad and it showed in his voice.

The woman's voice grew warmer. "I'm one of the night nurses," she said. "You're at a clinic on the waterfront. Spider-Man brought you in." Her hand was on his arm as she added, "with two broken ribs, a punctured lung, mild hypothermia, a truly impressive black eye, and various bruises and lacerations. We were pulling glass shards out of you for a couple of hours, easy," she added. Matt winced, even as he relaxed once more. He knew about the 'Night Nurse Clinic,' although he'd never been here before. Spider-Man had told him once that they dispensed free medical care to those costumed adventurers who needed it, no payment required (though donations were welcome) and no questions... no irrelevant questions asked.

"Do I want to see the other guy?" the nurse asked.

_Almost _no irrelevant questions. He didn't feel like answering that one and the nurse dropped it.

"Okay," the she said as she circled behind him to come to the other side of the bed. "You've been here for almost two days. If your throat is sore, it's because you had to be intubated while we were working on you. It'll pass. It won't always hurt when you breathe either, though I know it does now. I'm afraid painkillers can only do so much..."

Matt nodded his understanding.

"There are breathing exercises you'll need to do. A respiratory therapist should be here a bit later today. You're still at risk for pneumonia right now, and as painful as it is, you're going to need to take deep breaths at intervals to keep the air circulating throughout your lungs. If you don't, you'll be leaving yourself wide open for infection—something that was already a concern, seeing as you were fished out of the East River."

He remembered that now. Waking up in agony in a car, smelling the foul water outside, knowing that despite his pain, if he wanted to live, he had to move. Adrenaline had done the rest. There'd been an empty bottle next to him reeking of whiskey. He'd smashed it on the dashboard and used a jagged shard to cut himself free of the safety belt when it refused to open. When the door had behaved similarly, he'd had no choice but to break the windshield. He'd pulled his hand up his jacket sleeve, made a fist, and swung. When the water started to pour in, he'd given up on trying to get out of the car without getting cut by the windshield glass. There hadn't been time for anything fancy. He'd shouldered his way through. He remembered thinking that he needed to figure out which way the surface was and then... nothing. Until he'd woken up here in the clinic. Had he come to earlier? And was Foggy...?

"You're currently on full-spectrum antibiotics," the nurse continued, "in case you picked up something nasty in the river. Once we've confirmed that your blood is free of infection, we can probably set you up with an epidural. Should make you a lot more comfortable."

He smiled. 'A lot more comfortable' sounded wonderful. Now, where was... "Foggy?" he asked.

"Your friend? He'll be here shortly. To be honest, Mr. Murdock, we weren't sure when you were going to regain consciousness. Mr. Nelson just went to get something to eat... which, come to think of it, might not be a bad thing for you either. I'll tell him you were asking for him when he gets back."

Matt nodded, satisfied.

* * *

The clinic seemed to get less traffic than most of the hospitals he'd visited in the past. He said as much to the nurse when she returned with a tray of food. "While we wouldn't turn away a person in need," she explained, "the only people who generally come here in an emergency are those who heard about us through word of mouth—from a community that tends to be somewhat secretive. Otherwise, it's mostly cuts and scrapes, the odd broken bone, and before the start of the school year, inoculations. Our full-time staff is comprised entirely of nurses, so most serious cases that don't involve people like you tend to end up at other clinics or hospitals." She set the tray on a half-table connected to the bed by an extending arm and showed Matt where the controls were to push it aside or move it closer.

Matt frowned. "But... I had surgery here. Didn't I?" He smiled slightly, as some part of his brain registered a familiar heartbeat and the smells of diverse meats, cheeses, and condiments that probably weren't intended to be combined on a single submarine roll. The footsteps drew closer, and then paused.

"Minor," the nurse admitted. "Some of us have been field medics or worked in parts of the world where the distinctions between doctors and nurses were a bit blurrier. In extreme circumstances, we would call in a doctor, of course, but for the most part, we're more than capable of treating situations as they arise. And our services tend to be more discreet. For some in your line of work, that last bit tips the scales. Though if you've any complaints...?"

Matt shook his head. "You know who I am then."

"I imagine Nurse Carter does," the nurse replied. "She has a talent for figuring things out. As for me, I've learned that it's wiser not to ask those kinds of questions. Spider-Man brought you in. He made sure we noted a few details relevant to your treatment. I can guess you wear a costume," she admitted. "But as to which one? Not important."

_Oh, Mr. Nelson. He's awake. And asking for you. He's in the..._

_Room on the right! I know! Thanks!_

Matt mulled the nurse's words over, even as Foggy's footsteps sped up.

"Thanks," he said finally. "Um..."

"Julie."

The door opened. "Matt!"

Julie took a step back. "Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Murdock. I'll be in to check on you later."

Matt smiled. "Come in, Foggy." He started to lean forward, but the pain in his chest reminded him of the reason that he was here.

Foggy obeyed. "How are you doing?"

He groaned. "It only hurts when I'm conscious." He sent the tray away, appetite forgotten, and shook his head. "I lost, Foggy."

He heard the scrape of wood on epoxy as Foggy dragged a chair next to his bed and sat down with a creak. Foggy sighed, as he set a take-out bag down on the floor. "I hope so."

"What?"

"I hope so," Foggy repeated. "Because if this is what winning looks like... it's pretty overrated."

For a moment, Matt froze. Then his lips twitched.

Foggy chuckled.

Matt started to laugh, but broke off with a gasp and brought a hand swiftly to his ribcage.

"Matt!" Foggy was half out of the chair. "Are you okay? Let me call—"

Matt placed a firm hand on Foggy's arm. "Don't. I'll be fine. But," he winced, "Reader's Digest notwithstanding, laughter _isn't_ always the best medicine. Exhibit A: fractured ribs." He kept holding on until Foggy relaxed.

"I'm sorry," he said heavily, sinking back to the chair. "I was trying to cheer you up, not..."

"I know." He frowned. "How did you know to come here, anyway?"

"I didn't," Foggy admitted with a sigh. "Spider-Man brought me after I took a nosedive into the East River."

Matt's frown deepened. "Wait. What?"

"Yeah," his tone was deceptively casual. "See, after I followed you to Fisk Enterprises... don't get mad, I wasn't going to interfere..."

"You followed me," Matt repeated flatly, sounding very much like he was questioning a witness. "Go on."

Foggy gulped. "Well, when I didn't see you go in or come out, I decided to—"

"You did _not_ go inside," Matt cut him off. "Tell me you did not go inside."

Foggy hesitated. "That swim you took wouldn't have shorted out your internal polygraph, by any chance?"

"Foggy..." Matt groaned. "You almost got yourself killed."

"Yeah, but that came later."

"Excuse me?"

Foggy sighed. "If you keep making me get ahead of myself, I'll get all mixed up."

Matt tilted his head to one side. "Are you drawing this out in some attempt to distract me?"

"Hey, it's not making you laugh."

Matt glared at him. Then he gripped the bed rail tightly and grimaced. "Fine. You went inside. Totally oblivious to how stupid it was."

"Sue me."

"Can't." His lips twitched. "You're the best lawyer I know and after the performance you gave before the grand jury, I would not want to face you in court representing myself."

Foggy laughed out loud. "Fine. I went in. Didn't get past the lobby, but I saw a couple of guys hauling you downstairs. By the time I registered what was going on, the doors had closed. I went back to the car, circled around and..."

As Matt listened, his jaw dropped lower and lower.

"...And then Spider-Man left me here and went back for you," he finished. "But seriously, if you hadn't drilled me on that kick, it could have gone down a lot differently. It saved my life."

Foggy actually believed that, Matt realized. He didn't see that his life wouldn't have been in danger in the first place if they hadn't been friends. He...

"Matty? Are you... crying?"

He could have blamed it on his ribs, he supposed. Or denied it outright. Foggy would have pretended to believe him. Instead, he simply said, "Sue _me_."

"Oh, please," Foggy got up and put a hand on Matt's shoulder. "Haven't you already had enough legal troubles to last a lifetime?"

Matt's lips twitched. A guffaw burst from his lips and then a gasp.

And then Foggy was apologizing for making him laugh and Matt was holding onto him and letting his tears come any old way they wanted to.


	9. Chapter 9

References: Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man #134, 137, Amazing Spider-Man Vol. 1 #276–8. Daredevil, Vol. 1 #228–9.

Some dialogue lifted directly from ASM #277 by Tom DeFalco and Ron Frenz (Marvel, 1986).

**Chapter 9**

The epidural brought his agony down to a more manageable level, but it didn't eliminate it. "Effectiveness does vary," the nurse said apologetically.

Matt nodded his understanding. "It's an improvement," he said. Meditation should reduce the pain further. At least, thanks to the epidural, he could achieve the necessary focus for that. He reached for the glass of water on the side table and fell back with a gasp. "Really." He frowned, picking up a slight hesitancy on the nurse's part and an increase in her stress pheromones. "Is something wrong?"

"Well," she replied, clearly uncomfortable, "you do understand that this is an emergency clinic. We generally patch you up to the point where you're able to go home and then expect you to follow up with your primary care physician. Your friend mentioned that there were some complications relative to the security of your current address...?"

"Oh," Matt nodded again. "Yes," he said with a faint smile, "unfortunately, there are. I'll talk to him. Maybe between the two of us, we can work something out." He tilted his head, questioning. "How long do I have?"

"I suppose," the nurse said, "it depends on whether someone else in your line of work comes in for treatment. We really only have the one room set aside. We like to keep it vacant as much as possible."

"Ah." Matt reached for the IV pole and tried not to wince. "All right," he said, stifling a groan. "I," he gasped as he struggled to swing his legs over the side of the bed, "I guess I'd better... _agh!_ ...g-get up."

"I can help—" the nurse started to say, but Matt cut her off.

"You... won't be there after I... leave," he pointed out. "I've got this." Gritting his teeth, he forced himself out of bed, clutching the IV pole for support. His legs promptly buckled and he fell to the floor.

"Mr. Murdock!"

Matt reminded himself forcefully that there was a fine line between pride and idiocy. And that pride went before a fall—as he'd just illustrated. "I'm... fine," he lied. "Who," he tried to smile despite the pain, "who took the muscles out of my legs?" He tried to pull himself up, gasping as his ribs let him know that epidural or no epidural, they were a long way from healed. "Is that offer of help still open?"

The nurse stooped down and offered her shoulder. "We're not kicking you out quite yet," she reassured him, "but there's absolutely no reason for you to be on total bed rest. What I'd like to do is get you sitting upright in a chair; there are a number of exercises that you can start with to build back your strength."

Matt nodded. "How far away is the chair?"

"There's a good one just over in the corner. I can move it closer."

"No," Matt shook his head and rested a hand on her shoulder, even as he tightened his grip on the IV pole. "Better move _me_ closer to it. Help me up." He winced again, this time for a reason that had nothing to do with his ribs. "I'm sorry. Please."

"Of course, Mr. Murdock," the nurse replied and Matt could hear the smile in her voice. "I'm going to straighten up now. Ready?"

He nodded and braced himself for the pain that he knew would follow. Despite his best efforts, another gasp escaped him.

"I'm afraid you're going to be feeling that for some time," the nurse said sympathetically. "Are you sure you're up to walking to that chair today?"

Matt forced himself to take a deep breath, despite the fresh stab of agony. "Only one way to find out," he replied. "Let's just... take it one step at a time."

* * *

He was sitting in the chair, slowly stretching his knee to his chest when he recognized a familiar heartbeat headed toward him. The only question to Matt was whether he was here in costume. "Up for visitors?" a soft voice, somewhat muffled by a face mask, inquired from the doorway.

In costume, Matt confirmed to himself. Aloud, he said, "As long as you don't mind if I keep exercising." Even so, he held off on resuming his stretches and waited for Spider-Man to come closer before he spoke again. "Foggy told me what you did. I—"

"I'm sorry," Spider-Man interrupted. "When you weren't breathing, I didn't even think that maybe chest compressions would make things worse. I panicked and—"

Matt held up a hand. "I wanted to thank you," he clarified. "Not just for saving my life, although I _am _grateful. If Foggy had..." He let his voice trail off, as he listened carefully. Once reassured that his friend wasn't within earshot, he continued. "I never dreamed he'd go after me on his own like that. If I hadn't told him... he wouldn't have followed me and he'd have been sa—" He shook his head. "No. From what he told me, the Kingpin was planning to have him killed and then frame me for the murder. If..." He broke off when he felt Spider-Man's hand on his shoulder.

"Matt," Spidey sighed, "do us both a favor and stop beating yourself up. That's one of those areas where you really don't want to outshine Kingpin."

Matt's lips twitched. "I believe there's an expression involving a pot and a kettle that would be appropriate here," he said dryly. "Regardless, you're right on your main point. I have been beating myself up." He brought his knee to his chest again and winced. "Very effectively."

"Um... I'm pretty sure Fisk gets some of the credit. When I get my mitts on him..."

Matt shook his head. "No. He's mine. But be careful. It's very possible that he's compiling data on more of us. He might know who you are, too."

Spidey flung his hands into the air. "You lay something like that on me and you expect me to back down? You must be on some _really_ good painkillers."

"Not quite good enough," Matt admitted. "Fine. If you're going to confront him—and I'm going on record as advising against it—there are two things that I want you to do for me. I realize I'm not in a position where I can hold you to this, but I'm hoping that you'll respect my wishes."

"I'm listening."

Matt repeated the stretch. "One: do not tell him that I'm alive. Eventually, someone will haul that submerged taxi out of the river and find it empty, but until then, if he thinks I'm out of the picture, I can afford to take the time to recuperate and plan my next move."

"Matt..." Spidey ventured, "Can you afford not to?"

"No. That's why it's important that I have this breathing space, which I won't have if he's combing the city for me."

"Fine," Spidey said. "What's the second thing?"

"Going by what Foggy told me, I'd say it's likely that at least one of his people saw you fish him out of the river. I'm presuming that, if Kingpin believes I'm dead, Foggy's safe. See if you can confirm that—_without_ hinting to Kingpin that you're any more concerned for him than you would be for any random potential drowning victim." He sighed. "I'd like to be able to tell Foggy it's safe for him to go home."

"Where's he staying now?"

Matt's voice lowered a fraction. "He's contacted his credit card providers to let them know his wallet's been lost. He's going to his bank to pick up the replacements tomorrow. After that, we're not sure. He can check into a hotel—which would pinpoint his location, if Kingpin is looking for him. He can see if he can stay with a friend. He can try camping out in the waiting room here, if they'll let him. He might have made other arrangements. I'm not sure."

"Got it. Anything else?"

Matt hesitated. He hated having to beg favors, but... "I wish I had the funds to reimburse you or something I could give you to pawn," he said slowly. "I need hair dye. Some color other than mine and I believe it's easier to go darker than lighter."

"Okay."

"And color contact lenses," Matt said. "The color doesn't matter. If I'm going to lie low for a bit, it's important that I not appear to be blind. There aren't too many people wearing dark glasses at this time of year, and I've been told that without them, my condition is obvious."

Spidey nodded. "Yeah, it is. Okay. Look, I'm hard up for cash; I think you probably figured that out a long time ago. Still, what you're asking for is relatively cheap. Like less-than-the-cost of-the-web-fluid-I-need-for-an-average-night's-patrol cheap. And maybe..." he paused.

"Maybe?"

"Uh... would it be pouring salt in a wound if I asked you for free legal advice?"

Matt sighed. "I guess that my being disbarred didn't make the papers."

"It might have," Spidey replied. "I don't usually have time to read more than the front page and the comics. So, how does that work?"

"Excuse me?"

Spidey flung a strand of webbing to the ceiling, sailed up, and dangled upside-down. "Well, how do they remove your legal knowledge? Do they hire a telepath? Hypnosis? Surgery?"

Matt didn't bother to hide his irritation. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm not looking to hire a lawyer," Spidey said. "One, I can't afford you. Two, neither can Flash."

"Flash," Matt repeated, puzzled. The name meant nothing to him. "I don't understand."

Spidey dropped back down to the floor in a graceful somersault. "I'm looking for legal advice, Matt—something I'd normally be a little too embarrassed to ask you for. I mean, normally, it'd be taking advantage of our friendship, since there's no way I could afford your consultation fee. But one of my best friends was just arrested on suspicion of being the Hobgoblin. The evidence looks pretty bad. I honestly don't know whether he's innocent. He can't afford a lawyer; someone named Sharon Banks is handling it pro bono, but I don't know how good she is or how thorough she's going to be. You told me, not so long ago, that everyone deserves the best defense they can get; the defendant as well as the plaintiff. If Flash's case is being handled by someone who already thinks he's guilty and is just trying to get him a lighter sentence when maybe he shouldn't be serving one at all, do you think that qualifies?"

Matt shook his head slowly. He remembered that conversation. It was more or less the same thing he'd told a colleague some days earlier, but the words had still applied, when he'd put his mind to convincing Peter of the merits of the legal system. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'd offer to take the case if I could, but I can't. I can talk to Foggy about it for you, if you're that worried about your friend's current counsel."

"That would be great," Spidey admitted, "but even if he can't... look, whether Flash is innocent or guilty, he's still a friend. I don't know if Sharon Banks is just going to phone it in; she might be the greatest thing since Oliver Wendell Holmes. Or, she might be an overworked overextended burnout case who graduated in the bottom half of her class and will call it a job well done if Flash ends up serving ten to twenty instead of life. I just don't know." He hesitated before adding, "And if he really is the Hobgoblin, then I'm not sure I want to know. He came pretty close to killing me a couple of times." He took another breath. "I was thinking that maybe with your help, we could come up with... something that we could hand her. Banks, I mean. You know, do a lot of the work that she might not have time to do. Maybe it'll help. I mean, it can't hurt, can it?" Without waiting for a reply, he plunged on. "That's where I thought you could come in. I mean, if Foggy's willing to represent him, that's... that'd be really great. And if you tell me that Sharon Banks is good, I'll trust you. But if you're bored and looking for something to do..."

_And since he really did hate asking for favors..._ "You understand," Matt said slowly, "that my mind hasn't really been focused on that sort of thing for the last little while."

"I bet it's like riding a bike."

Matt was silent.

"Don't tell me you never—"

"I grew up in Hell's Kitchen and money was tight, okay?" Matt snapped. "My father had a hard enough time paying the rent and getting food on the table without my bugging him for a bike." Not to mention that Dad would probably have said something about riding cutting into his study time.

"Sorry."

Matt shook his head. "Don't be. Or maybe I should apologize. I didn't mean to bite your head off. I was just going to say that, because I'm out of practice, and considering that I'm no longer an attorney... if you're sure you want my help, I think I can see my way clear to reducing my usual consultation fee to... say... the cost of some hair dye and color contacts?"

"Sounds fair to me," Spidey replied.

Matt matched the smile in his friend's voice with one of his own. "Can you get me a pad and pen? I'm going to need to take notes."

* * *

When Foggy returned, it was to find Matt with a pad of 8 ½ by 11-inch paper on his lap, frowning as his fingertips ran back and forth over the page. As Foggy watched, Matt flipped the sheet over and repeated the exercise.

"Hi, Matt. Tell me that's not your treatment bill," Foggy greeted him.

Matt paused from his perusal. "No... just an interesting puzzle Spider-Man asked me to look at."

Foggy pulled up a second chair and sat down. "Yeah?"

"Flash Thompson. Arrested wearing the Hobgoblin's costume. A search of his apartment turned up a crate containing pumpkin bombs and other trademark weapons. The guy was in the army, sort of drifted after being discharged, recently broke up with his girlfriend after she caught him with another woman—a married woman. Guy says he didn't do it, but is unable to explain how he got to the place where he was arrested, how he got into the costume, or how that arsenal ended up in his closet."

Foggy let out a low whistle. "Tough case for whoever's taking it."

"Do you remember Sharon Banks? She was in our year at Columbia? Sat behind me in Criminal Law."

"Sharon..." Foggy brightened. "Yeah... yeah, sure! We were both in Black Letter Law/White Collar Crime with McConnell. Sure, I even think we went out a couple of times."

"She turned you down once. The second time, you had to cancel because you caught that flu bug that was going around. Then mid-terms happened and you started going with Monica Stebbins."

Foggy let out an exasperated breath. "How do you remember all that?"

Matt ignored the question. "Spider-Man asked me to examine the case and see if there's something everyone overlooked that Banks might be able to work with. He suspects that Thompson was framed. Considering that the guy had been trying to kill him when he was apprehended, that's saying something."

"Uh huh," Foggy nodded. "Psych evaluation?"

"It's been ordered. Not sure when it's happening. Guy founded a Spidey fan-club, back in the days when the _Bugle_ wasn't the only voice clamoring for his head. Stuck up for him in the past. Spider-Man's looking to return the favor. Says a lot, considering."

"Admiration's been known to turn to envy before. Or disillusionment."

"True. Let's just say that I've had some firsthand experience with being set up. It makes Spidey's suggestion that his friend's been framed seem a bit more plausible to me than it might have a few months ago."

Foggy chuckled.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just... good to see you pulling yourself together is all. I don't think you've been this interested in a case in months." He hesitated for a moment before resting a hand on Matt's arm. "Not even yours." Then, quickly, before Matt could respond, he withdrew his hand and added, "Anything I can help with?"

Matt gave him a rueful smile. "I thought you'd never ask. Here's what he's told me, so far. I did have a few other questions for him that he couldn't answer off the top of his head. He's going to see if he can see Thompson or Banks and ask them, but meanwhile, if you can think of a few other angles..."

* * *

Spider-Man waited in the shadows of the darkened office as the heavy, ponderous footfalls drew closer. Now he could hear the greetings of various office workers.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Fisk."

"Hello, Mr. Fisk."

"Nice day, Mr. Fisk."

As the office door opened, he heard another man telling the Kingpin something or other about having assembled some data on gambling operations. Fisk sounded preoccupied, which suited Spidey just fine. The man was too busy giving his flunky the brush-off to notice that his office was already occupied. As soon as Fisk closed the door behind him and walked to his desk, Spidey went into action.

The faint sound of his webshooters deploying did not escape the larger man's notice.

"You may as well come out of the shadows," he said calmly. "I know you're here. I heard you gluing the door shut with your webbing. I realize that I'm trapped in here until it has had sufficient time to evaporate. To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?"

Face to face with the Kingpin, Spidey fought to keep his temper under control. He reminded himself that he couldn't let it slip that Matt was still alive, no matter how furious he felt. "You can thank Franklin Nelson," he said evenly. "I found out what happened to his best friend. We both know why. I am not happy."

Fisk sniffed. "Why come to me? I have heard of Murdock's misfortunes. Who hasn't? The media has been most informative on the subject. But surely, you don't hold me responsible. The man has been obsessed with me for a long time. How could you believe any of the charges he might level against me... especially when you consider what the weight of his troubles must have done to his mind?"

"Methinks you doth protest too much."

"Talk to him. Judge for yourself."

Behind his mask, Spider-Man's eyes narrowed. There it was. Kingpin _didn't_ know that Matt had survived. Or at least, he was hoping that Spidey would let him know one way or the other. He took a deep breath. "I can't. He was staying with Nelson, but he hasn't been back in more than two days. Vanished. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Kingpin shrugged his shoulders. "Why would I? I'm running a multi-national corporation. I have a vast financial empire to oversee. Do you seriously think I'd concern myself with one disgraced former attorney?"

"And you don't know anything about why Nelson fell into the East river, running from your people."

"My people?" Kingpin chuckled briefly. "Did they tell you that they worked for me? Do you have one shred of hard evidence to support your slanderous allegations?"

"I..." Spidey held his tongue.

Kingpin chuckled again. "I thought not. I grant that Murdock was a passing annoyance, rather like a mosquito. Nelson is even less to me."

"So you aren't after him?"

Kingpin sighed. "I will say this once, and once only, web-slinger. I wish Mr. Franklin Nelson every success in life. I am not conducting some witch-hunt for Murdock's past associates. If an mosquito annoys me, I may swat it, but I have far more important things to do than hunt down the colony from which it emerged. When you speak to Mr. Nelson—I can only presume that you're here at his behest to ensure that it is safe for him to resume his daily life—as though I had any desire to prevent his doing so—please, do express my sympathies. Losing a friend can be devastating. I can only hope, for his peace of mind, that Murdock turns up eventually—and I'm sure he will."

"I still think you know more about that missing friend than you're telling."

The larger man smiled. "Perhaps... but what can you do about it? Beat me up? Web me to a wall? Hope the police arrive and find enough evidence to convict me? That's your usual style of dealing with criminals, isn't it?" He took a cautious step toward the edge of his desk, hoping to take up the walking stick that leaned against it. "I'm sorry, Spider-Man, but coming here was a waste of your time."

There was a 'thwipping' sound and a blob of webbing landed on the cane, securing it to the side of the desk. "Maybe," Spider-Man allowed, "and maybe not." He perched lightly on the desk and regarded his adversary.

Kingpin let out a long breath. "Aside from serving as an occasional minor annoyance, there's no way you can possibly harm me. I am a force quite beyond your limited abilities. My network could find you to be much more of a help than a hindrance."

Spidey gave an angry start. "What do you mean by that?"

"You serve me in many ways you've never even realized. A large part of my income comes from people who pay me for protection from you." He was reaching for the telephone on his desk, knowing that the push of a button would summon reinforcements to deal with his unwelcome guest, when a red-gloved hand slammed down on the receiver.

"Really? Tell me more. But keep your hands to yourself."

Kingpin smiled benignly, as though he was trying to explain politics to a precocious six-year-old. "You also act as an evolutionary force to help weed out the minor criminals," he said, moving toward the book-case and the emergency exit concealed behind it. "The survivors often find places within my organization." He was about to reach for the book that would trigger the hidden door when Spiderman touched lightly down before him, blocking his path.

"You think you have all the answers, don't you?"

"Of course," Kingpin rejoined, hiding his anger at being thwarted. "Do you realize that every time you save the city from a super menace, you're actually helping me, by allowing the normal business of crime to continue? You're aiding the flow of money into my pockets!"

"Cut it out, Kingpin!"

"Don't feel bad, Spider-Man. I'm sure I also serve some of your needs... though I can't even guess at them. You and I have a much closer relationship than you could ever imagine!"

"Well, don't hire the band and photographer yet, chubby!"

Kingpin ignored the jibe and focused on the undercurrent of anger in his adversary's tone. Anger made people careless. Careless people made mistakes. He smiled and continued his verbal assault. "Perhaps... it's time I put you on payroll."

That hit a nerve. "Stop it, Kingpin!" Spidey nearly snarled. "You're pushing me too hard!"

"Am I?" The big man peered down his nose at the costumed crime-fighter and smiled. "Such a pity you can't do anything about it. I know you, Spider-Man... Probably even better than you know yourself. You'll never strike me first. So long as I stand here and do nothing."

All of a sudden, Spidey was glad that his mask hid his expression. He had what he'd come for. He didn't need to stand here and endure the crime boss's smug serenity a moment longer. But before he left, he wanted to make sure that Kingpin would see him as a slightly less minor annoyance than usual. "You're..." he forced the word out, much as it galled him, "...right. It was real stupid of me to come here. I should have used my brain instead of acting on instinct." He hesitated. Was he overdoing it? No, Kingpin seemed to be buying it. "I should have realized I couldn't take you on as I would a simple street thug." Almost... Just a bit more... Much as he hated laying it on this thick, it was going to be worth it. Yes, he was being petty. Juvenile, even. But so what? Kingpin needed to be taken down a peg or two, and this was the safest way to do it. Plus, he'd promised Matt he wasn't going to interfere. This didn't count. Much. "The only way to bring down a big leaguer like you is slowly! Subtly! Short-term methods just won't work!"

As Kingpin turned to face the window, Spidey made his move, taking advantage of the creak of the floor and the noise of the pane sliding back to mask his actions. Sounding bored, Kingpin opened the window wider, saying, "This has all been rather enlightening, Spider-Man, but I think you should go now. You've already wasted enough of my valuable time."

Spider-Man took a deep breath and let it out. "You're real good at manipulating people, Kingpin," he said, "but you're not nearly as powerful or invulnerable as you may think. Someday, you'll make a mistake. I'll be waiting!" He swung out the open window, knowing that if Kingpin spotted him watching, he'd know something was up. He wished he had Matt's ears, just this once, just so he could hear what was coming next.

In his office, still smarting from the encounter, Wilson Fisk sat down in his chair—and promptly discovered that Spider-Man had left him a parting gift on its seat. Webbing. He was glued to the chair until the cursed stuff dissolved. Kingpin scowled and slammed his hand down on the intercom button. Instantly, his secretary's voice came on the line.

"Yes, Mr. Fisk?"

He forced himself to speak calmly. "I do not wish to be disturbed for the next two hours. Keep everyone away from this office... under penalty of death!"

He barely heard the acknowledgement. Spider-Man would pay for this humiliation. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

When Spidey returned to the clinic, it was to find Matt and Foggy bent over in deep discussion. They stopped as he entered.

"Okay," Foggy said slowly. "It doesn't look good, but I guess you already know that much."

"That being said," Matt chimed in, "I wouldn't give up quite yet." He beckoned Spider-Man closer. "Grab a chair. From one of the other rooms if you have to. This is going to take a while."

Spidey set a small paper bag down on the empty hospital cot and leaped lightly to the ceiling and squatted upside-down. "I'm good," he said.

"Okay." Matt nodded to Foggy.

"I'm willing to call Sharon Banks," Foggy said. "For the record, if she's anything like the way she was when Matt and I knew her in law school, your friend is in good hands. Now, we've never gone up against her in court, so I can't tell you what she's like today, but what was your impression?"

Spidey shrugged. "I don't know. She seemed excited to take the case, though I don't know if it's because she believes Flash is innocent or she's hoping to cash in on the publicity, or what."

"All right." Matt sighed. "Before Foggy makes that call, though, we might have a bit of a snag."

Spidey tilted his head. "Another one?"

Matt's lips twitched. "Spider-Man, you've been extremely... open with me about your friend, which I appreciate. But I suspect that part of the reason you were so open is because this isn't the first time. Bluntly put, I know who you are under that mask, and I suspect that some of what you told me earlier would be material that Spider-Man would not be privy to."

Foggy nodded apologetically. "And since Matt tells me that you've already spoken to her in your civilian identity, it is very possible that when I approach her, she'll let that name slip. If she does, of course, I'll keep your secret, but I get that just my knowing it might be a problem for you."

There was a long silence. Spidey broke it. "I know all about 'innocent until proven guilty'. I do. To save my friend's life—and let's not kid ourselves; if he's found guilty, he'll be facing years in prison—"

"If he gets the maximum," Foggy interjected.

"Fine. If I knew Flash wasn't guilty and this was the only way to get him off, I'd tell you. If I had to, I'd even tell Banks. But I don't know. And I'm not sure I'm ready to unmask to get a guy who's been trying to punch my ticket for the last few months off the hook." He shook his head. "I... I'm sorry."

Foggy shook his head. "Don't be. Once that kind of information is out there... there's no taking it back. And after what Matt's been going through, I don't think either of us can blame you. But it is going to make things harder." He sighed. "All right. Let's go over this again. And this time, I want you to take out anything written here that Spider-Man wouldn't know. Also, before I contact Banks, I want you to encourage her to interview other people who know Thompson—if she hasn't already. The more people she talks to before I try to get involved, the less likely I am to figure out which one of them's you. Just... please make sure that Banks gets the rest of the information—the stuff we're crossing out now—from your alter ego. Call Banks; tell her you thought of something that might be helpful and... I'll try not make connections you don't want me to if she should mention your other name to me when we review the data. Always assuming she's willing to have me assisting."

"I won't have to testify, will I?"

Foggy gave him a tired smile. "For which side, Spidey? If you're this ambivalent when you're trying to get your friend some help, I don't think we're going to want you on the stand." In an undertone, he added, "And good luck serving you with a subpoena."

Matt cleared his throat. "I do have some ideas for you if you were planning to do a little investigating of your own."

"No offense, Matt," Spidey replied, "but I think I can figure out who to talk to."

"Yes, but do you know what to ask them? More to the point," he continued seriously, "do you know what kind of evidence is admissible in court and what kind isn't?"

Spider-Man was silent.

"Look," Foggy said, "you want our help? You've got it. But now that you've got it, you need to know how to conduct yourself so as not to accidentally sabotage the case."

Spidey dropped lightly to the floor. "I'm going to grab a chair from another room," he mumbled.

"Do you need to take notes?" Foggy asked.

"I'll grab a pen and paper, too."

* * *

It wasn't until they'd gone over everything multiple times that Spidey finally remembered to tell Matt and Foggy about his meeting with the Kingpin. Both men instantly became more serious.

"Can we trust him?" Foggy finally asked.

Matt nodded slowly. "I think so. Kingpin doesn't lie. He chooses his words carefully. Very carefully. If he tells you that you can sleep safely in your bed at night, that doesn't mean he's ruled out a drive-by shooting."

"He didn't deny that his goons were chasing you," Spidey pointed out. "He just didn't admit it either."

"Wish I had him on the stand," Foggy muttered. "No judge would stand for that kind of garbage."

"Unless Kingpin had some hold on him," Matt pointed out. "Remember Manolis?"

Foggy nodded, but Spider-Man sat bolt upright. "Manolis?" he repeated. "I've heard that name before. Where...? Oh, yeah... yeah!" He stopped and looked at Foggy. "Um... you know how you said you'd try not to pry into my identity? I... this kind of touches on that."

Matt let out a breath. "Would you mind, Foggy?"

"Nah," Foggy replied, getting up. "I could use a coffee right about now. And I think I saw some Twinkies in the vending machine," he added, rubbing his back.

"Sorry," Spidey said as Foggy passed by.

"I understand."

As Foggy closed the door behind him, Spidey sighed. "I hated to do that."

"No, it's all right. So... Manolis?"

Spidey nodded. "I was waiting to drop some photos off at the _Bugle_. Jonah's door was closed, but the guy doesn't know the meaning of the words 'indoor voice'. Uh... J. Jonah Jameson."

"I know who he is," Matt replied. "Go on."

"Okay. Ben Urich was in there with him. It was..." he snapped his fingers. "_That_ was when I found out about your home!" Then chastened, he looked down. "Sorry."

Matt shook his head. "Go on."

"Okay. Ben was arguing with Jonah. I mean, it happens; Ben's one of the few people at the _Bugle_ who isn't afraid to argue with him. He was insisting on covering the story—your story; either for the _Bugle_ or some other paper. He mentioned your house then... I'm sorry; I should have put things together. But he also said that he was going to talk to Manolis and see if he could get some insights." He shook his head. "I am such an idiot."

"It seems to be going around," Matt said quietly. "Nick Manolis was the prosecution's star witness at my grand jury hearing." He took another few minutes to bring Spider-Man up to date. When he was finished, the web-slinger shook his head.

"Want me to talk to Ben for you? Maybe he found out something."

Matt considered it. "Better not," he said finally. "Until Kingpin knows I didn't drown in that car, the fewer people that know I'm alive, the better."

"I don't have to mention your name."

Matt shook his head. "Ben's not stupid. The only reason you'd have to be sounding him out on Manolis is if you've been talking to me. He's going to make that connection."

"You're sure you're not just being paranoid? I mean, how's Kingpin even going to find out?"

"He had me under surveillance for weeks. He had Manolis under orders not to talk to Daredevil and to report in if I made contact. If there's a chance that he's still monitoring Manolis to make sure he stays quiet..." He froze. "Keep an eye on Ben. He could be in real trouble."

"Okay," Spidey said dubiously. "Oh. I almost forgot." He walked back to the cot and retrieved the paper bag. "Here's that stuff you asked for."

Matt accepted the bag. "What color dye did you get?"

"Dark brown," Spidey said. "I figured if the clerk started asking questions, I could tell them that I'd just found a few gray hairs and wanted to touch them up."

"I hadn't realized your hair was brown," Matt replied with a faint smile. "And the contacts?"

"Blue."

Matt's smile grew wider. "Just like they used to be."

* * *

"You know," Foggy said, later that evening, "I'm not exactly a beautician."

"You'll do fine," Matt reassured him. "Just don't miss any spots."

"Great," Foggy replied. "Just remember, it was your idea."

"What's the next instruction?"

Foggy consulted the paper. "Um... Work mixture gently through hair from roots to ends." He frowned. "I'd better do your eyebrows, too," he said critically. "And I'd go for a really close shave if I were you."

"I've been thinking about growing a beard."

"Think about it all you like," Foggy replied, "But unless you want to keep touching up the roots every day..."

"Not the way this stuff smells," Matt shot back as Foggy massaged the coloring mixture into his scalp with gloved hands.

"When is the nurse coming back?"

Matt tried to lean back into the sink—no easy feat in the straight-backed chair. His ribs still ached, but meditation was helping to manage the pain. "I have no idea. If they say anything, I'll just point out that they want me gone as quickly as possible, this is probably the safest way to facilitate that." He took a breath. "I want you to run an ad in the paper. Tomorrow's, if there's time."

"For...?"

"A new roommate. If you get any phone calls, stall them. Tell them... I don't know. You've already had a fantastic response and you'll call them if the current batch of applicants doesn't pan out."

Foggy frowned. "And I'm doing this because...?"

"Because if Kingpin is still watching you once you return home, we want there to be a simple explanation for a new face in your apartment."

"Got it. I guess you're going to be using an alias?"

Matt frowned. "I guess I'll have to. I hadn't really thought about it."

"Well, start thinking about it. And do not think about pretending to be your own twin brother. I had enough of that garbage the first time."

Matt started to laugh. Then he winced and pressed a hand to his ribcage.

* * *

"Well," Foggy said critically, "it's a lot darker than it looked on the package."

Matt nodded, unconcerned. "But other than that?"

"It'll pass. I'm not so sure about the contacts, though."

Matt frowned. "Why? They don't look natural enough?"

"No, it's not that." Foggy hesitated. "It's... you need to work on establishing eye contact. If that's even possible for you to fake. Half the time, you already forget to face people when you're talking to them, but when you're not trying to act like you can see, people tend to let it slide. If you're trying to pass, on the other hand..."

"I'll work on it." He frowned.

"What?"

"Spider-Man," Matt said slowly. "Something's happened."

"And how do you know..." Foggy's voice trailed off as Spider-Man entered the room, his head hanging low and his shoulders slumped.

"Spider-Man?" Matt asked. "What's wrong?"

The web-slinger hesitated. "I went to look for Ben, like you asked me to. Um... Merry Christmas, by the way. As of about two hours ago."

Foggy's eyebrows shot up. "Wow. How did that slip my mind?"

"Other things on it," Matt pointed out. He nodded to Spidey to continue.

"I couldn't find him or Manolis anywhere. And while I was looking for him, I ran into the usual... stuff I find when I go out at night. I might have gotten a little side-tracked. Anyway, about a half hour ago, I was in Kips Bay, passing Bellevue, when I saw a bunch of EMTs in the parking lot. They were bending over a couple of people. Ben was one of them. He was hurt and he seemed... I guess 'shell-shocked' would be a good way to put it. One of the paramedics was talking to him. But the other guy..."

Spidey shook his head. "They were loading him onto a backboard. He wasn't conscious. I'm not sure he was breathing. But I heard his name when one of the EMTs read it off of his ID." He took another breath. "It was Manolis."


	10. Chapter 10

References: Daredevil, Volume 1; No. 75, Amazing Spider-Man, Volume 1; No. 281.

A/N: In researching Irish speech patterns, I'm hoping that I've gotten it right. I apologize for any inadvertent offense.

**Chapter 10**

For a moment, neither Matt nor Foggy said a word. Then, Matt gripped the armrests of his chair tightly with both hands. "Back before the hearing," he said, "Ben called me. He wanted to find out what was going on. I blew him off." He shook his head. "Not that I knew what was going on either, but..."

"Yeah," Spidey nodded. "It could have gotten a little awkward if you'd let it slip that it was Daredevil-related, as opposed to—"

Matt shook his head. "Ben found out about that a long time ago."

"You have got to be kidding," Spidey said, shocked.

"No. He knows. And since the _Bugle _was following my grand jury hearing, Ben would have found out about it—which would explain why he was so hot to talk to Manolis, once he knew I was avoiding him." He quickly brought Spider-Man up to speed on what had happened when he'd confronted the officer himself.

The masked man clapped a hand to his forehead. "It doesn't make sense," he said. "Manolis is a decorated officer. Well-respected. I guess it's possible that he could be on Kingpin's payroll, but..."

"I know," Matt sighed. "If he'd been on record as a Brady cop..."

"A what?"

"I'll field this one," Foggy broke in. "Say a cop messes up one time and gets caught falsifying evidence or committing perjury. That kind of thing follows them for life. Any time they might be called upon to testify in court—pretty common occurrence for most officers, as you can imagine—that testimony gets called into question." He smiled. "Or, simply put, a known liar isn't likely to be believed, even when they're telling the truth."

Spidey nodded. "Wait. If a Brady cop is a cop who's already been caught lying, or whatever... why are they still cops?"

"Most of the time," Matt replied, "they aren't quite bad enough to be fired. Or they might be, but the department doesn't want to get tied up in a possible wrongful dismissal suit. Trust me, the media is all over it when people who are supposed to represent the law find themselves on the witness stand for all the wrong reasons. It starts people asking questions about whether the defendant was the only one to slip through the cracks, or just the only one—so far—to get caught." He heard Foggy's sharp intake of breath and waved him off. "I'm fine. Anyway, rather than leave themselves open to a media feeding frenzy, the usual solution to the problem is to quietly move these people into areas where they'll never have to make an arrest, thus obviating their need to testify against a defendant in court. They get switched into desk jobs, like permits or personnel."

"It sounds pretty humiliating. You'd think they'd just quit."

"Some do," Foggy nodded. "But keep in mind that Brady cops are still paid a police officer's salary. And while that's nowhere near a seven-figure income, it's not chump change either. Add in the pension and benefits and... There are a fair number who figure it's worth a little humiliation."

"So, as I was saying," Matt continued, "if Manolis had been a Brady cop, the case against me would have been tossed out. There's no question. A first-year law student could have won it. To make the charges against me carry weight, Kingpin had to find someone absolutely incorruptible..."

"...And corrupt him," Foggy finished.

"How?" Spidey asked.

Matt sighed. "If we knew that..." His expression hardened. "Ben would have been wondering the same thing. If he tracked down Manolis... and Manolis was ready to talk... and they were being watched..."

"Why would they have met at a hospital, of all places?" Foggy wondered. "It's not exactly private. Hell, this place isn't private; it's just a bit off the beaten track and we wouldn't be having this kind of discussion here if Matt wasn't recuperating."

"Good point." Matt frowned. "I don't suppose you could locate Ben's home or office number for me, Spider-Man?" he ventured. "My address book blew up with my brownstone. I think it might be time to compare notes."

"Sure," Spidey said. "I know his ext..." he stopped. "I know his extension would be written on his phone," he continued glibly. "I'll just stop by the _Bugle_ after hours and get it."

"Sounds like a plan," Matt nodded.

* * *

Two days later, Foggy arrived at the clinic to find Matt out of bed and gripping his IV pole tightly. He gave Foggy a pained smile. "I'm fine when I stay in one position," he said. "It's when I have to get up or sit down that I have to struggle." He shook his head. "Still, I'm doing better now than I was when Spidey brought me in. How are you doing?"

"I signed a lease on a new place today," Foggy announced. "I take possession on January 2nd. Two bedrooms, not far from the old one. I even get to keep my old phone number. I figured that if I was going to go the whole 'advertise for a new roommate' route, it might look better if I had another room where they could sleep." He held up a hand, wondering if Matt realized he was doing it. "Don't argue. Don't apologize. Don't protest. It's done. Over. Moving on, now."

Matt sighed. "How much more?"

"None of your—"

"How much?"

Foggy named a figure. Matt nodded. "I'll start looking for some kind of work as soon as I can get out of here." He held up his own hand in conscious imitation of Foggy's earlier gesture. "No. Enough is enough. If you seriously want me to stay on, then I need to start contributing my share. We both know that you wouldn't be moving if I hadn't let you get involved—"

"Excuse me?" Foggy interrupted. "If you hadn't _let_ me? How were you planning to stop me?"

"I've done it before," Matt replied. "Do you remember when you collapsed in that alley in Delvadia on our way to the embassy?"

"Huh?" Foggy blinked in surprise. "Yeah, one minute we were walking along, talking and then you..." A note of anger crept into his voice. "You yelled that there was something behind me and the next thing I knew, I was waking up with a headache and some local kid was..." He gave a furious start. "You didn't."

"Afraid so," Matt admitted. "I didn't want to, but I..."

"Had to get away to change into costume," Foggy sighed. "Tell me again how much safer I was not knowing about your night job?"

Matt shook his head.

"And you're planning a repeat performance?"

"I didn't plan the first one. I just... improvised," he admitted. "If I'd thought things through, I probably wouldn't have."

"Probably?"

Matt let out a slow breath. "Does it help that I felt like a jerk for doing it?"

"Well, you _were_ a jerk for doing it."

"Feel any better about allowing me to pay part of the rent on the new place now?"

There was a long silence. Finally, Foggy sighed. "If and when you find a job, we'll continue this discussion. Until then, let's just consider the matter tabled." He frowned. "The next time we have a business trip in some foreign country, I'm bringing a helmet with me. Not to mention Luke Cage."

* * *

It was Peter Parker who stopped by later that afternoon, a few minutes after Foggy left the clinic. He'd walked several steps past Matt, who had been slowly making his way down the hallway and grunting with the effort, before he doubled back. "Sorry. I almost forgot about your new look," he admitted.

"You changed your clothes," Matt remarked. A slow smile spread his lips when Peter stopped in his tracks. "Your voice was muffled before. Don't worry. Foggy will be gone for a bit." He sighed. "He had to do some shopping."

"Groceries?"

"Furniture. I don't suppose you've heard of any job prospects for a disgraced former attorney, lately?"

"Huh?"

Matt sighed again. "The more he insists that I don't have to reimburse him, the more I need to. This morning, I'm pretty sure I deliberately brought up an incident when I was... well, let's just say that it was a time when I was nowhere near as good a friend to him as he's being to me and I think some part of me wanted him to realize it."

"Did it work?"

Matt shook his head. "Oh, he got angry, all right. Then he cracked a joke and started making a list of things he needed to take care of before my discharge. I just..." He felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and turned his head on reflex, even though his radar had already caught the contour of Peter's hand. "There is no way that I can possibly pay him back for these last few weeks, unless he ever finds himself in a situation like my current one and I don't think I'd..." His lips twitched. "Okay, I guess I _would_ wish that on my worst enemy. But not my best friend."

"I hear you. I'll keep my eyes peeled. Anyway, I did find something out today. Sort of accidentally."

"About your friend, Flash?"

Peter shook his head. "No. Something did happen on that front; I'll fill you in on it in a minute. But first, I did a little bit of skulking at Bellevue. I was looking for information about Ben's condition. And Manolis'."

Matt stopped walking. "And?"

"Well, Ben's going to be fine. Broken fingers, but the prognosis is positive. Manolis... they're not sure. But that's not the accidental part. See, there were two records listed under 'Manolis'. One was for Nick. The other was for an Anthony Manolis—a kid, ten years old, underwent emergency heart surgery on the night of December 24th. He... he didn't make it. The hospital recorded the time of death as midnight. And when I was swinging by, it was maybe a half hour or so later." He paused for a beat. "Nicholas Manolis was listed as his next of kin."

Matt let out a long breath. "I believe that _would _explain why a decorated police officer with a spotless record would commit perjury on the stand. I've fought insurance companies in the courtroom before. I've had to learn something about typical policies: what they generally cover, what they generally don't, and what kinds of co-pays are typical. And heart surgery, even when they pay a significant part of the cost, the co-pay is... prohibitive. Sometimes, depending on the policy and what the exclusions might be, it wouldn't be covered at all. Obviously, without seeing Manolis' coverage, I can't comment further. But if Kingpin offered to cover the cost, provided Manolis did what he wanted..." He nodded slowly. "It does make sense."

"And then the kid... doesn't make it. And Manolis realizes that he got you disbarred—"

"—Not to mention, gave Kingpin something to hold over him in future, should he need other dirty jobs done..."

Peter sucked in his breath. "I hadn't thought of that, but yeah. So... for whatever reason... grief, guilt, anger... he decides to come clean. He doesn't turn himself in—not to the authorities—not when he doesn't know who's working for Kingpin and might cover the whole thing up—but to a member of the press, as it were..."

"And he tries to talk to Ben in the parking lot, but somebody else was keeping an eye on one or both of them and follows them..."

"And the next thing you know, one of them has broken fingers and the other one's in ICU," Peter nodded. "It all fits."

"It does," Matt nodded back. "I've asked you to keep an eye on Ben. Breaking his fingers was a warning. It's a pretty effective way to silence a writer. If, despite that, he goes ahead with the story, I don't think I need to tell you the danger he'll be in."

"I know. I'm on it."

"Thanks." Matt smiled. "Now," he continued seriously, "You mentioned something about your friend's case? Foggy hasn't contacted Sharon Banks yet. He was going to, but he thought it might be wiser to wait until he had a phone number where he could be reached."

Peter sighed. "I... It's just as well, I guess. Two days ago, some guy named Jack O'Lantern broke him out of jail. He hasn't been seen since. I'm hoping I can track him down and convince him to turn himself in before he gets in any deeper, but right now, I have no leads."

Matt nodded. "Keep me in the loop."

* * *

Two days before the end of the year, Matt moved into the Plaza Hotel. On December 29th, one of the clinic nurses politely but firmly informed him that he'd been with them for over a week and could convalesce on his own now. "Normally, we would have released you sooner," she admitted, "but sending you away right at Christmas would have been harsh and then we decided that you might as well stay on until it was time to remove your chest tubes."

Matt's fingers flew unconsciously to his torso. Under the thin fabric of the scrubs he'd been issued—a darned sight less embarrassing than a hospital gown—he could feel the thickness of the taped gauze bandage covering the spot where the lower tube had gone in. The area was still a bit tender, though a good deal better than it had been.

"You'll have a scar after it heals," the nurse advised him. "For now, keep taking the painkillers and ice when necessary, as you've been doing here. Continue with the stretches and breathing exercises. You'll probably want to keep sleeping with your torso elevated; a recliner is usually a good idea."

"And lie on my injured side, right?" Matt asked. It had sounded counter-intuitive when the nurse had suggested it to him here, but it did make breathing easier.

"Yes, if you can manage that." He heard the smile in her voice. "Depending on the chair, you might find it difficult to get comfortable in that position, but you might want to spend some time lying on your side during the day, if you need to rest. Now, it normally takes at least six weeks for broken ribs to heal completely. You'll probably be able to resume normal activities..." She stopped. "Well, normal for most people," she continued, "a bit sooner." Her tone grew more serious. "Physical activity is good for you and there's no reason why you can't do _most_ of a regular workout. The exercises you'll need to avoid are those that place a lot of pressure on your ribs. Ab crunches, pushing and pulling heavy objects—that would apply to weight training, by the way."

She sighed. "As we've mentioned before, you're not the first person of your... vocation that we've treated here. Perseverance is good. Working through pain—within reason—will help you. But hold off on, um, field work... until you don't have any pain to work through." There was a hint of good humor behind her sternness. "You've been delightful company, Mr. Murdock, but we don't want you back here in a hurry."

Matt smiled. "I understand."

Now, leaning back in the recliner in the hotel room, Foggy's even snores audible from the suite next door, Matt's forehead was creased in thought. Even if he had been inclined to ignore the nurse's advice, his costume had been reduced to smoldering rags by the explosion that had destroyed his house. He'd need to make a new one before he went out to patrol again. He thought of the time and trouble it had taken to sew the suit in the first place. He'd stitched his original costume by hand and the repetitive work had nearly bored him to tears. Having to rip out uneven stitches, or worse, discovering that he'd miscalculated and made the sleeve widths uneven had set him pummeling his frustrations out on a heavy bag, before gritting his teeth and resuming the task. He'd purchased a sewing machine for subsequent costumes. It, too, had been in the brownstone and was probably melted slag by now.

That settled it. He was going to start looking for work as soon as he could provide a valid address and telephone number to a prospective employer. He didn't know what kind of job he'd be qualified for and he didn't much care, but he was going to start contributing something to the rent and he was going to find some way to procure a sewing machine and some red fabric.

With these thoughts uppermost in his mind, and a painkiller adding to his drowsiness, Matt drifted into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

They went back to Foggy's apartment the next day. "I've still got this place for another month," Foggy said, shifting the stack of collapsed cardboard boxes from his storage locker in his arms, "so there's no real hurry to pack everything up." The elevator doors parted at their floor and the two emerged.

Matt smiled. "No, but let's do as much as we can," he suggested. "It's probably a good idea to make sure that we get everything essential ready to go now. Spider-Man's schedule can be erratic and the window of opportunity for his help can be a bit narrow."

"Are you sure he doesn't mind?" Foggy asked seriously. "I mean, it's not that I'm ungrateful. I didn't know where I was going to find a mover in less than a week, forget what they would have charged. But..."

"We came to an agreement," Matt replied. "He knows someone in need of paralegal services—a woman in Forest Hills who's running into some zoning issues. She's turned her home into a seniors' boardinghouse and apparently, she has a neighbor trying to make trouble about it." He extended his arms for the boxes and Foggy slid them over so that he could get his key out. Matt continued talking. "I told him I'd trade him a few hours going over the municipal bylaws and seeing if she's in compliance or—if she isn't—whether there's any way that she could be without too many hassles, in exchange for his helping with the move." He smiled as Foggy turned his key in the lock. "I'd still take any breakables by car," he added. "Spidey's preferred method of transportation can be a little... rough."

"Tell me about it," Foggy replied. "At least you were unconscious when he brought you to the clinic." He pushed the door open, disturbing a pile of mail. He sighed. "Probably more bills than job offers in there," he muttered, stooping to gather the envelopes. "Here," he deposited them atop the pile of boxes. "You might as well set everything down by the sofa. See if you can separate out the junk mail from the important stuff; maybe we can use some of it for packing. I'm just going to check the messages."

"Sure." Matt walked over to the sofa and slowly eased himself onto the cushions as Foggy headed for the answering machine in the kitchen. He retrieved the pile of mail and started sorting. A moment later, he heard a tone and a familiar voice began to speak.

"Foggy, it's been over a week since last I've heard from ye. I hope all's well. Call me." Another tone. "Foggy, I haven't the understandin' of why ye've not called me. Honestly, it's feeling like the same old song, it is. Please call." Another tone. "On second thought, Foggy, ye needn't be after calling me. Not for the next little while. I wish ye well."

A moment later, Foggy returned to the living room. "I guess you heard."

"Yeah." He sighed. "I'm sorry. You and she probably would have been good together."

"We weren't going out," Foggy said, joining him on the sofa. "We were... sort of getting to that point."

Matt smiled. "I know. You told me. And Foggy, it wouldn't have been a problem if you had been. Glori broke up with me weeks ago. I can't really blame her. I was still trying to process Elektra... and Heather... and," he shook his head, "I think on some level, I knew that I was probably dating Glori on the rebound. I started pulling away... looking for excuses to break dates. Yes," he smiled sadly, "Daredevil was part of it. However, there's a difference between being out with someone, overhearing a crime in progress and hoping that the next sound you hear will be a police siren, or the Fantasticar, versus overhearing a crime in progress and hoping that you'll get there first. Still," he admitted, "I might have tried to chase after her. If I hadn't gotten her break-up cassette on the day that I received the grand jury summons."

"I never knew that." Foggy was stunned. "Talk about lousy timing."

"Maybe it's just as well," Matt sighed. "If she'd been meaning to mail me that tape, held off a couple of days, and then found out about my situation, knowing Glori, she probably would have insisted on standing by me, not because she wanted to, but because she wouldn't have wanted to deliver one more bit of bad news. Continuing the relationship out of pity or some... I don't know... misplaced sense of duty would have been..." He took another breath. "...much worse. I'm just sorry that your looking out for me scuttled your chances."

"Hey. If it's meant to be, it'll be," Foggy said with forced cheer.

The phone rang then, startling the two men. "Do you suppose...?" Matt let his voice trail off meaningfully.

Foggy laughed. "It's probably just a telemarketer. I'll get rid of him." Even so, Matt noted that he sprang from his seat and nearly lunged for the phone.

He snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

Of course, Matt couldn't see the change in Foggy's expression, but he could hear his sudden intake of breath and the spike in his heart rate. An instant later, he felt his own autonomic responses follow suit, as he heard Foggy's incredulous exclamation.

"_Karen?!"_


	11. Chapter 11

References: Daredevil Vol. 1 #230. Some dialogue in this chapter lifted directly from canon.

**Chapter 11**

Matt forced himself to stay seated on the sofa instead of jumping up to pull the receiver out of Foggy's hand.

"Karen Page?" Foggy was saying. "Golly, you're the last person I was expecting to hear from. How's it going?"

Matt strained to hear the voice on the other end of the phone, but although he could pick up general agitation, the individual words eluded him. The connection wasn't the greatest; static was crackling on the line, to say nothing of the traffic in the background—both outside Foggy's apartment building and coming through over the telephone line.

"Matt?" Foggy was saying. Matt half-rose from his seat, then stopped, frowning, as Foggy continued. "Well, Matt's come on hard times, Karen. It's a long story. No, I'm sorry; I can't say where he is right now—"

Matt couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What?"

Foggy held up one hand. "Love to see you, Karen. How long are you in town? What, right now? Well, I'm sort of tied up... moving soon and I have to pack." Karen was talking again, apprehension plain even through the static and interference. "Well, sure, if it's important. Where?" Foggy's heart rate spiked for an instant, then returned to normal. "Boy, that's a rough part of town. Are you sure? Sure, Karen. For old times, like you say. I'll be there in a few." He replaced the phone in its cradle.

"Old times," he said, more to himself than to Matt. "Geez, it wasn't so long ago..."

"Why," Matt's angry voice cut into his musings, "didn't you let me talk to her? Or tell her I was right there?"

Foggy took two steps toward the sofa. "Because for the past few weeks, Kingpin has had you followed and tried to have both of us killed. We still aren't positive that he's lost interest in me and if he thinks you might still be alive, we can't rule out the possibility that he's tapping my phone in case you call."

Matt was silent. "Yes, fine," he said in a more subdued tone, "but I can come with you to meet her."

Foggy sighed. "Do you really think that's wise?" he asked. "Look, you're in disguise. Either she'll recognize you, probably shout your name from across the room and run toward us, making your presence known, or she won't and she'll wonder why I brought you along. Then we'll have to tell her who you are. And if Kingpin is still having me followed, then..."

Matt shook his head. "I never meant my paranoia to rub off on you," he said softly.

"It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you," Foggy pointed out. "She wants me to meet her in a café corner of Audubon and West 170th."

"Washington Heights?" Matt frowned. "I see what you mean about a rough part of town."

"Yeah. I think—and let me know if you've got a better idea—I should meet her there and give her a quick recap of what's been going on, once I'm sure we're not being overheard. After that, I'll either call and ask you to join us—don't pick up the phone; you'll hear the message play—or bring her back here." He walked over to the sofa and placed a hand on Matt's arm. "What do you think?"

Matt gave a slight nod. "I couldn't quite make out her half of the conversation, but she sounded nervous."

"She was. I don't think she's in any immediate danger or she wouldn't be asking me to meet her in public, but you're right. She's got to be in some kind of trouble."

"Then I should go with you." He started to get up quickly, but stifled a gasp as his ribs protested the sudden movement and he sank back to the sofa. "Damn it." The hand on his arm tightened. He shook his head. "I'm fine. Relatively speaking."

"Yeah," Foggy smiled sympathetically. "I'll be careful. See you soon. Either back here or in Washington Heights."

Matt gave him a pained smile.

As soon as Foggy left, he clenched his jaw, hauled himself laboriously off the sofa and made his way toward a straight-backed chair to start on his stretching exercises.

* * *

The first thought Foggy had when he entered the seedy café and saw her sitting there was that she actually looked like she belonged in this neighborhood. Karen was pale and haggard; her hair was disheveled and her coat—a bit on the light side for New York in January—would have been the better for a dry cleaning. Then she looked up, saw him, gave him a tremulous smile and waved him over and Foggy forced himself to smile back as he approached her table.

"Have you ordered, yet?" he asked her. "Let me order you something. My treat."

She started to shake her head. "I don't..." She checked herself. "Actually, some coffee would be lovely. Thank you, Foggy."

"Are you sure that's all you want?" Foggy asked. "Seriously, I can spring for a burger, if you want. Or salad. Do they have salad here?"

She shook her head. "Just coffee."

"One cream, two sugars, right?"

This time her smile was a bit warmer as Foggy walked up to the counter to order. A bit more like the young woman he remembered, the woman he and Matt had both fallen hard for... before he'd married Debbie. And Matt had taken up with the Black Widow. And Heather. He sighed. He'd told Matt that it hadn't been that long ago, but it sure felt like a lifetime. When he made his way back to the booth, he was carrying both the coffee and a strawberry milkshake for himself.

* * *

Karen was looking about nervously as he approached. She relaxed when he sat down and reached gratefully for the coffee mug. Foggy waited until she lowered it before asking, "Um... How're things? I mean..." _I mean, what happened to you in Hollywood after those first couple of pictures? Why are you back in New York? Why are you shaking like a leaf and half-ready to run every time someone passes by this booth? _He looked away as Karen wiped her nose on her coat sleeve—something she never would have done in... Hell, he guessed they really were the 'old days' after all.

She smiled weakly. "I must look like hell," she murmured.

She did, but he immediately denied it. "You look like you just walked out of a fashion magazine," he replied.

She laughed then. "You need to get your eyes checked," she said and for a moment, he could see the old Karen bubbling below the surface.

"No," Foggy persisted, "I mean it. You look great."

She took a gulp of coffee. "Flatterer. Thank you for meeting me here, Foggy. I..." She closed her eyes. "I..."

Foggy leaned forward, all joking gone. "Karen... what happened?"

Karen set the cup down and exhaled in relief. "I thought you'd never ask, Foggy," she sighed. "It's... well, I... I..." She picked up the cup again, but didn't drink. Instead, she held it in both hands as though trying to draw some warmth from its contents. "I suppose you know about... no, you wouldn't have seen my movies. Let's just say that I've messed up my life about as badly as I could. Let's just..." She studied the pattern in the Formica table, not meeting his eyes.

"I'm a junkie," she said finally. "And I've got to find Matt or I'll be murdered."

If Foggy hadn't made a career out of taking what his clients told him in stride, he'd probably have reacted with a greater degree of shock. As it was, his jaw dropped for a moment, but he recovered quickly. She moved then and the light hit her profile, accentuating a bruise he hadn't noticed before.

"What happened to your mouth, Karen?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head. "That's Paulo. The man I'm with." She touched the bruise absently. "He's pretty awful."

She had a black eye, too, he realized. It wasn't some kind of eye shadow, as he'd originally let himself think. But more than her injuries, it was her calm acceptance of them that nearly sent him over the edge, as white-hot rage roiled within him. His hands clenched into fists as he all but snarled, "I'd like to get my hands on that rat..."

To his astonishment, Karen held up a hand. "Don't. Just... don't, Foggy. I just need to know where Matt is. He... I can't tell you why. But he's the only man who can save me."

He was about to reassure her, to tell her that he knew exactly _why_ she thought that Matt could save her. Then he remembered why Matt was still back at his apartment under protest and he decided that he could play his part a little bit longer. For the benefit of anyone who might be sitting nearby, listening to their conversation, he said, "Matt's disappeared, Karen. A lot has happened. Our law firm went out of business. Matt... Well, Matt's been acting crazy for some time now. Then... he was charged with criminal misconduct."

Karen turned her face away, but not before Foggy saw tears in her eyes. Sorrow, horror, and... something else. "Not Matt," she whispered. "No."

"It was a frame," Foggy continued. "By gangsters, I think. We did our best to fight it, but we lost. Then Matt's house blew up and he moved in with me. But now... Matt's vanished.

Karen buried her face in her hands. "Oh, no Foggy. No. It's... it's all my fault.

He felt his heart begin to pound as her words sank in. She couldn't mean... but unbidden, facts whirled in his mind and slowly, began to settle. Karen knew Matt was Daredevil. Somehow, Kingpin knew it too, now. Karen had come back to New York now, scared and desperate and... while she was aghast at what he was telling her, she didn't seem to be surprised. And why would she think that she could have done something to cause this? Was there some side effect to whatever she was taking that might make her delusional in some way? Or... "Tell me what you mean by that, Karen," he said, trying to stay calm.

She flinched. "Nothing," she said, not meeting his eyes. "Just talking like a junkie. Doesn't mean anything." She started to stand. "Look, I better go."

He was tempted to let her. If she had done what he was trying hard not to suspect she'd done, then Matt was better off without her. He could tell Matt that she hadn't been there—no, Matt would know he was lying. He could say she hadn't wanted to stay long and had had somewhere to go.

He could tell Matt what he suspected and that he hadn't wanted to bring Karen back.

The light hit her face again highlighting her bruises, startling sickly purple against her pale face. And he heard himself saying with clear conviction, "Back to the guy who punched you? No." He took her arm, shocked to realize how thin it was through the coat sleeve. "You're coming home with me, Karen."

She turned frightened eyes to his, then. "No," she protested. "Foggy, you're sweet, but no. Paulo... he'll kill you. He'll kill both of us."

There it was. He had an out. Karen was trying to protect him. Matt might even buy that he'd been too spineless to insist, when the truth was... The truth was that if he let Karen walk away now and found out later that Paulo had... done something to her, or that she'd OD'd or...

Weeks earlier, he'd fought down his worry over what he was getting himself into and convinced Matt to stay with him. And yes, there had been consequences for that decision, but he didn't regret them. At the end of the day, maybe he wasn't half the hero that Matt was... but sometimes, a man had to rise to the occasion if he wanted to be able to look himself in the mirror afterwards.

No matter what Karen had done... might have done... he couldn't let her go off alone into the night, anymore than he had Matt.

Still holding onto her arm with one hand, he clapped his other to her shoulder. "I won't take no for an answer, Karen. You and me, we're family. Matt's family. Come on."

Slowly, she looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time since he'd handed her the coffee. Tears filled her eyes. She tried to blink them back, but they ran down her cheek as she nodded.

Foggy pulled her into a hug and held onto her until she managed to attain some control. Then he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and they slowly walked out of the café.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

In Foggy's apartment, Matt waited impatiently for his friend to return. He was getting a clearer understanding of what Foggy must have been going through on that afternoon, over a week ago, now, when Matt had gone off to deal with Kingpin. In fact, had Foggy given him the address where he was going to meet Karen, Matt couldn't be sure that he'd still be sitting here waiting, danger or no danger, ribs or no ribs.

As much as he knew that he needed to lie low for a time, there was something in him that bristled at having to stay behind. It was the same thing he'd been struggling with for more than half his life: _if you back down, if you slack off, even if __**you**__ know it's because you're tired, everyone else is going to think it's because you're blind. _Foggy definitely didn't think like that, but Matt didn't want to give him any reason to start. His high school guidance counselor had called it overcompensating, but Matt knew that he wouldn't have come nearly as far as he had if he hadn't pushed himself. Kids from Hell's Kitchen seldom made it to college, let alone law school.

To have managed to not only get into college but get into law school, to have managed not only to get into law school, but to have stayed the course and graduated magna cum laude, and to have achieved it while blind... yes, part of it had been to make his father proud. Most of it had been to make his father proud. Part of it had been for the little kid who'd been targeted by the neighborhood bullies because he wouldn't play with them. When things had been really bad, Dad had told him that one day, he'd show them all. And yes, getting as far as he did had given him no small sense of satisfaction on that score. But there had also been a refusal to give up in the face of the odds stacked against him. He never had. He never would. He just wished that sitting here, waiting for Foggy to return... with _Karen_ didn't feel like giving up.

_Karen... _How many years had it been? He'd tried to put her out of his mind when she'd left him for Hollywood. He'd thought he'd moved on. He'd dated other women. He'd nearly married one of them. But now, hearing Karen's voice, even though it had been muffled when it leaked out of the telephone, had brought all the old feelings back.

She was in trouble. She was in trouble and all he could do was sit here on the sofa and wait and hope she was all right. Ironically, she'd left him largely because she hadn't wanted to spend her life doing something similar while he was off being Daredevil. He'd understood that. It had been the main reason that he hadn't gone after her—not even when he'd moved down to San Francisco for a year. He'd thought about it. Even though he'd been with Natasha at the time, he'd thought about looking her up.

True, she hadn't been that close by. Almost 400 miles separated San Francisco from Hollywood, but he'd traveled over 2500 miles to get to the West Coast from New York. Another 400 miles would have been nothing. But he hadn't. She'd never called, never written. He'd assumed that it had been because her feelings for him had run as deep as his for her and that, once she'd decided that she needed to leave, she'd wanted a clean break. He'd never considered whether she might have moved on from him. She might be married now. With kids. She'd make a wonderful mother. Maybe the reason she was back in town wasn't because she still loved him, but because she needed his help as Daredevil.

Matt rested his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand. Whatever her reasons, if Karen needed him, he was going to be there for her. He frowned as his fingertips encountered stubble. That wouldn't do. She'd think he was letting himself go. He had to shave before she got here. He got up carefully and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

Foggy did his best to keep conversation light during the taxi ride back to his apartment. He'd never been this paranoid before these last few weeks, but he wasn't quite ready to bet their lives that they weren't being followed, that the taxi driver wasn't on Kingpin's payroll, that someone wasn't waiting outside his building to check if Matt was going to show up. He didn't like having to be this careful, but he knew how necessary it was. It wasn't lost on him that Karen hadn't questioned his precautions. She'd said that people were after her, too. Perhaps she was used to looking over her shoulder by now.

It wasn't until they were taking the elevator up to his apartment that Foggy finally cleared his throat. "About Matt," he said in a low voice. "He's there. In my apartment."

"What?" Karen gasped. "Why didn't—?"

The elevator was already passing the third floor. The doors would open again on the fifth. "He's in disguise," Foggy interrupted her. "Brown hair, color contact lenses. People are after him, too. We decided this way was best. I just wanted to prepare you..." He let his voice trail off as the doors opened. He poked his head out and looked quickly up and down the corridor. Then he beckoned to Karen and she followed him out of the elevator.

"Thanks for being careful," she said shakily. "I-I was in Mexico before all this. I was going to visit a..." She hesitated. "...A friend," she said. "Well, okay. Not a friend." She looked miserably at the ground. "M-my supplier. I needed a fix." She flinched when Foggy wrapped an arm around her. "I got to his room and he was... he was dead. Shot. Someone was bending over his body, still holding the gun. And then he pointed it at me. I was lucky. He missed. I ran. I've been running ever since."

"It's going to be okay," Foggy tried to reassure her. "We're almost there. Come on."

Karen nodded and moved forward a few steps. Then she froze. "I can't," she said. "Foggy, I can't see him. You don't know..."

"Karen..."

"I can't face him, Foggy!" Although she was still speaking softly, panic seemed to lend volume to her voice. "Not after what I did to him. I can't. I have to go."

Foggy's voice hardened. "Where? Back to Mexico? Back to the guy who gave you that shiner?" He hoped Matt could hear this. "Karen..."

"It's my fault that people are after him!" Karen snapped. "Don't you get it? I needed a fix. That was the only thing I could think about. I needed something so I could feel good and not remember how wrong things had gone for me. I had to get the stuff. I didn't care what I had to do. Only... I didn't have any money. I'd already pawned everything of value I owned. I had nothing worth anything except..." Her voice broke. "Except something Matt told me in confidence a long time ago."

Well, that confirmed his suspicions. Foggy closed his eyes. "I think I know what it was," he said heavily.

"Y-you do?"

Foggy nodded. "Yeah. It took a little longer for him to share it with me, but... yeah."

"Then you know I can't face him!"

"I know you don't want to face him," Foggy said, "but Karen... I'm sorry. From what you've told me, I can only imagine what you've been going through, these last few years. Scratch that. I _can't_ imagine what you've been going through, not really. I know that. But one thing I've been hearing loud and clear is that you've been running away for a very long time. You ran away from Matt when you couldn't deal with... what he told you." He didn't miss her involuntary nod. "You ran away from Hollywood when your film career didn't happen. You ran away from Mexico when—"

"What was I suppose to do?" Karen demanded with a hint of her old spirit. "Let that gunman shoot me?"

"Of course not," Foggy said, motioning to her to lower her voice. "I'm not saying you didn't have a good reason every time. But Karen... isn't it time to stop running now? You're not alone. I'm right here, standing next to you."

"But... Matt... Foggy, I—"

"I know. You're going to have to tell him," Foggy said. "Something this big... you've got to. And honestly? I don't know how he's going to react. But I do know this: he loves you. He always has. That's going to count for something."

"And I love him. That's what makes this so horrible."

"Yeah."

She gave him a tremulous smile. "I... I guess if I've come all the way from Mexico looking for him, I'd better see him." She shook her head. "And if he hates me after I tell him what I did, it'll be no more than I deserve anyway."

Foggy pulled her closer. "I don't think he could ever hate you," he said. "But whatever happens, I'm going to be right there with you."

Karen screwed her eyes shut and nodded, but despite her best efforts, when she opened them again, he saw that they were brimming with tears. It was only another few steps to the door of his apartment. As Foggy fumbled for his key, he hoped for the best, even as he steeled himself for the worst. The problem was that he was hard-pressed to determine what was going to be 'best' in this situation.

* * *

He heard them talking as they came down the hall. Karen sounded tense, almost hysterical. Foggy was calmer, but his voice was a little too controlled. As Matt listened, he understood why. He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. So. That was how the Kingpin had found out. Matt hadn't been sloppy. He hadn't been careless. Or, if he had been, that hadn't been the problem. Karen had... she had... she had to have been in a far darker headspace than he'd ever been for her to have done something like that.

Matt thought about what he'd gone through in the months following Elektra's death. How he'd lashed out at, or withdrawn from those closest to him. What he'd put Heather through... How much had his treatment of her factored into her final decision? It was all well and good to say that he'd been coming apart inside at the time. He'd been grieving. He hadn't been thinking clearly. That still didn't alter the fact that she'd been hanging on by her fingertips and he'd practically danced on her hands.

He hadn't thought about consequences when he'd been in that state. Heather had paid the price. He hadn't thought about consequences when he'd gone abroad, going above and beyond (or so he'd convinced himself) to track down a lead, ignoring what Foggy had been trying to tell him about the state of their practice. The firm had paid the price.

Foggy had put his heart and soul into that law firm, far more than Matt ever had. Losing it had nearly killed him. But when Matt had called him—almost before the sign painters had finished scraping 'Nelson and Murdock' off of the office door—because of the grand jury summons, Foggy hadn't hesitated. In the weeks that followed, he hadn't voiced a single recrimination, hadn't played the martyr, and hadn't once reminded Matt that he was lucky Foggy was even willing to talk to him at this point, much less help him. And Foggy hadn't just phoned in his defense, either. With all of the evidence against him, right up until the verdict, Matt had been sure that he'd be looking at five to seven years in prison. If he was lucky. Foggy had stayed awake till all hours, researching every possible angle, every possible precedent, and every lead— no matter how slight— that might give them an advantage. And in the end, Matt had been disbarred, but not incarcerated.

Foggy had done all that and then, after the trial, he'd gone and done so much more. When anyone else would have walked out, Foggy had stood with him. Not just _by _him. _With_ him. Whatever Karen had gone through, whatever she was going through now, Matt knew from immediate past experience just how badly she needed someone in her corner.

But Karen had...

_All right, Matt. Pretend she's your client. How could you argue the case, hmm? _He thought about it. Karen had been frightened and desperate and people who were desperate did desperate things. Didn't he have enough experience on that front already to understand what she must have been going through? She might not have been fully rational; drugs could mess up a person's mind. Not to mention their judgment. Didn't the fact that she'd sold his secret for a fix only bolster that argument? Compassionate grounds: Karen had nearly been killed in Mexico, from what he was overhearing. Somebody named 'Paulo' had given her a black eye. Thinking about that made his blood boil. When he got his hands on that guy, he was going to... He was going to admit that if he was trying to find reasons to justify helping her, he'd already made up his mind that he was going to.

They were at the door. He heard Foggy's key turning in the lock and he got up to greet them.

Karen was in trouble and she desperately needed his help, despite... or perhaps _especially_... because of what had happened. Turning her away would be almost like brushing off every way that Foggy had come through for him. But more than that... More than that, he still loved her. Maybe that argument would never fly in a court of law, but then, he wasn't bound by those rules anymore now, was he?

The door opened and they walked in. Matt took a step toward them—toward _her_—and spread his arms wide. Karen fell into them, crying out his name and Matt held her tightly, ignoring the protest from his healing ribs. He still loved her, he was going to help her through this, and for this moment, that was the only thing that mattered.

* * *

"I still don't see how you can just... brush off what I did to you so easily," Karen repeated. She ran her finger along the rim of her empty mug of tea.

"I can refill that," Foggy offered, reaching for the teapot on the coffee table before them. Karen shook her head.

Matt smiled easily. "Over the last little while," he said slowly, "I think I've come to realize that Fisk may have been able to separate me from everything he _thinks _is important, but..." his smile widened, "...not everything that's _really_ important. The funny thing about it is that I needed to be separated from all of it to realize how little it mattered."

"But... your home... your career..." Karen protested. "Matt, I never meant to—"

"Of course you didn't," Matt's voice was gentle. "Listen to me. I've defended enough clients in court on drug-related charges to recognize that the need for another hit—and with heroin, it _is_ a physical dependency, not just a psychological one—can be strong enough that you're willing to do anything in order to get it. Things that you'd never do if you didn't have the addiction." His smile dimmed. "Which brings me to a question. And I need you to answer me honestly. Before you do," he reached over and sandwiched her hand between both of his, "I want you to know that whatever you decide, I am still going help you. No strings attached; I just need to know how things stand." He slid closer to her. "Karen, do you want to get off of the drugs?"

"Yes!" She hesitated. "But... the withdrawal... I've gone through that before... a little. It was bad. Really bad."

Matt nodded. "Yeah. I'll be here to help you through that, as much as I can." He squeezed her right hand in his left and brought his right hand to her shoulder. "If I could take the withdrawal pain on for you, I would. I hope you know that. I can't. But I can promise you that you aren't going to go through it alone. I'll be right here with you."

"We both will," Foggy spoke up resolutely.

Matt smiled. "Right. Karen?"

"Yes."

Matt exhaled. "All right. How long has it been since you got your last... hit?"

Karen hesitated. "I don't know, I didn't look at my watch. It might have been late morning or... or early afternoon. I don't know. I remember the sun was pretty bright. ...I think. Oh, I don't know." She sniffled. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine," Matt said. "I'm just trying to remember the timeline. Once the withdrawal symptoms kick in," he said slowly, "the first two days are going to be the hardest. Whatever symptoms you've had in the past when the junk was leaving your system are going to be worse. I can't sugarcoat this. It's going to hurt. You probably won't be able to sleep. Sweats... anxiety..." He squeezed her hand again. "Once again, you are not going to be alone while you're going through this. At least one of us will be here in the room with you at all times. After two days, the worst of the pain will have passed, though you'll still be experiencing some, and probably a few other symptoms like nausea and lack of appetite. Usually, by the sixth day, you're mostly out of the woods. You still won't feel one hundred percent okay, but you'll be getting there. Then we can start looking at some kind of support group."

"Support group?" Karen repeated. "Isn't that what the two of you are going to be doing? I thought you were going to be helping me!" she said frantically. "How can I go talk to total strangers? I couldn't!"

"Easy," Matt said, still holding her hand and remembering that one of the first symptoms of heroin withdrawal was increased agitation. "Easy. I said that we were going to help you and I meant it. We are going to be here with you, while the drugs work their way out of your system. But after that, you might find it helps to talk to people who've been through the same things you have. That doesn't mean either of us are going to just hand you over to them and walk away. We're both here for you now and we'll both be here for you then. But it's one thing for me to have researched the symptoms of withdrawal well enough to list them and hold on to you when you're in pain. It's another thing to truly know what going through withdrawal feels like. There might be a time when you need to talk to someone who's experienced it."

"But if not," Foggy broke in, "nobody is going to force you to go. It's your choice all the way."

"I haven't felt like I've had a lot of choices lately," Karen murmured.

"Yeah, well that's changing. Meanwhile, let's just focus on the next couple of days, yeah?"

Karen relaxed slightly. "Okay," she said, sounding like she was trying not to cry. "Okay."

"Why don't you lie down?" Matt suggested. "Try to sleep now, before the pain starts to hit." He turned to Foggy. "I'm going to need to sleep on the recliner for the next few days, as it is. I guess Karen can have the bed?"

"Sure," Foggy said easily. "I'll just put fresh sheets on. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

"Oh, no!" Karen protested. "Foggy, I can't turn you out of your bed. I'll take the—"

Foggy laughed. "I've been sleeping on the sofa for nearly a month, now. You'd be turning me out of my bed if you took it. And Matt _can't_ sleep in a bed until his ribs heal; not comfortably, anyway. The bed's yours and welcome to it."

"Well..." Karen said slowly, "If you're sure..."

"I'm sure. Look," Foggy suggested, "why don't you take a shower while you're waiting? I'll lend you a shirt to sleep in and there should be some laundry soap under the sink if you... I mean, there are some things you're wearing that you probably want to wash," he said awkwardly. "If you know what I mean."

"Not sure I can think about that right now," Karen admitted.

"No problem," Foggy said, changing tracks quickly. "I was planning to head down to the Laundromat tomorrow anyway. I'll just throw your things in with ours. I don't _think_ I'll get 'em mixed up," he said, coaxing a bit of uncertainty into his voice.

Karen giggled. "Thanks." She took a deep breath. "Okay. A shower does sound good. Thanks."

After Foggy showed her where the bathroom was, he waited until he heard the water running before he told Matt, "Try not to prepare her too far in advance. She's got a rough couple of days in store. I don't think it's going to do her much good worrying about what comes after it when she's might just need to focus on getting through one hour at a time."

Matt nodded. "I should have realized that. Thanks for being so... good about all of this. It's going to be a hard few days for all of us."

"I couldn't very well do anything else," Foggy replied. "And I know. We'll manage. How are your ribs holding up?"

"Sore," Matt admitted, "but nothing I can't handle at this point." He frowned. "You don't have any prescription-strength painkillers in your medicine cabinet, do you? Opiates in particular?"

Foggy thought for a minute. "No, it's all over-the-counter stuff. Aspirin, cough syrup, Pepto-Bismol... there _might_ be a few prednisone left over; you remember when I had that really bad laryngitis and a trial date coming up? The doc gave me ten and told me I could stop taking 'em once my symptoms cleared up. It's a steroid, not a painkiller. Do you need something?"

Matt shook his head. "No. I was just checking. If you did, I was going to suggest you lock them up or get rid of them."

For a moment, Foggy didn't understand. Then he drew in a breath sharply. "Right. I didn't think about that. But since you're bringing it up, what about you? Didn't the clinic give you anything?"

Matt shook his head. "They offered, but meditation and Ibuprofen seem to be handling whatever the epidural didn't." He sighed. "I'm still in a bit of pain," he admitted, "but nothing I can't deal with."

"Maybe you could teach some of that to Karen."

Matt nodded. "Possibly, but it takes time to master. It won't help her through this."

"No," Foggy smiled. "But then, that's where we come in, right?"

Matt smiled back. "Right."

* * *

In a seedy room in Washington Heights, an angry man paced the floor impatiently. "Stupid skirt should have been back hours ago," he muttered. "If she thinks she can run out on Paulo, she's got another think coming." Still mumbling to himself, he picked up a small attaché case that was leaning against the rickety wooden desk, deposited it on the bed and opened it. Inside, embedded in custom-cut foam, was a disassembled gun.

As he set about fitting the pieces together, he was muttering, "I warned you to come right back, Karen Page. Guess it's up to Paulo to teach you a lesson..."


	13. Chapter 13

References: Daredevil 232

A/N: If canon ever tells us what the "P" in 'Franklin P. Nelson' stands for, I may revisit this if I guessed wrong. UPDATE: They did and I've changed it!

**Chapter 13**

That night, Matt dreamed he was fifteen again and back in the hospital. He was recovering from the surgery they'd done on his face to restore the damage caused by the radioactive waste—the _cosmetic_ damage, at any rate. He'd felt every cut, every stitch, every jab, despite the amount of anesthetic they'd administered. He'd screamed his pain and fear out on the operating table, writhing in his restraints. Eventually, the surgery had stopped. The pain had remained. Hours later, his face was still throbbing and burning, the agony as fresh as if he were still under the knife.

Not long afterwards, one of the doctors had come in and told him firmly that his cries were disturbing the other patients. "And really," he'd continued tartly, "a boy your age shouldn't be carrying on quite so much. There's no way you can still be in _that_ much pain."

Easy for him to say. _He_ wasn't in Matt's skin. But then he'd heard voices in the hallway and realized that Dad was talking with the doctor now. If he kept screaming, it would only upset Dad. So, he'd clamped his teeth together and tried to control himself.

Dad hadn't been fooled. He'd spent about a minute in the room with Matt and then stormed out, yelling at the doctors. Matt had heard the doctor saying that Matt was already on stronger painkillers than normally warranted after this kind of surgery. Dad would have none of it. "You get him on something better!" he'd demanded.

They had. Even that hadn't fully masked the pain, but at least he'd been able to stop crying, most of the time. When he slept, though, his control slipped. The nurses later told him that he moaned in his sleep. He hadn't believed them. Hadn't wanted to.

But tonight, he was dreaming that he was visiting his younger self in the hospital, doped to the gills on morphine, scared, alone, in pain... and moaning. As he sat next to the bed, keeping his younger self company, the moans grew louder. After a moment, he realized that they weren't coming from the bed beside him at all, but from the room next door. There had to be another patient there. Maybe there was something he could do to help them.

He started to rise from his chair, but it felt like he was trying to move through syrup. He was slow, sluggish, and the moans were getting louder. He struggled to move faster, another step, another...

He was awake. He was in Foggy's living room, leaning back in the La-Z-Boy recliner, surrounded by the lingering scent of fabric softener, the old-paper smell of the textbooks on the bookshelf, and the fragrance of the tea that had spilled on the rug earlier. A few feet away, Foggy was snoring on the sofa—a sound he'd grown used to during their four years rooming together at Columbia. During their first semester, the noise had been annoying. By their last, it had been almost comforting.

He smiled, but the smile fell away when he realized that he was still hearing the moaning from his dream. It was coming from the other room. _Karen_.

He wanted to bolt from the recliner into the bedroom, but he reminded himself that, thanks to his own condition, he needed to take it a bit slower. Remembering the tips that the nurses had given him at the clinic, he eased himself carefully out of the chair. Then he strode quickly to the bedroom.

* * *

Karen was lying on her side, curled up in a ball, clutching the hem of the bedspread in both hands for dear life. She was biting down on the spread, whimpering. Matt caught the sour smell of perspiration on her forehead.

"Hey." Matt approached her carefully, keeping his voice low. "Hey, it's going to be all right."

Karen quivered under the bedspread. Matt heard her sudden intake of breath, as though she was getting ready to scream. Instead, there was only a dry sucking sound.

"I know," Matt whispered. "I know it hurts. I'm right here for you." He went around the foot of the bed and sat down behind her on the mattress. "I'm right here."

Karen didn't move, but her heartbeat slowed marginally. Encouraged, Matt lay down beside her, remembering as he did so that the nurse had recommended he spend some time resting on his side. "I'm here with you," he whispered, stroking her hair gently. "You're going to get through this. You're going to be okay."

"It hurts," she croaked. "S-so bad. Feels... like I'm dying."

Matt didn't doubt it. "I'm right here," he said again. "You're going to be okay." Words. Stupid, useless words that couldn't do a thing for her pain. Maybe there was something else he could try. "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere..."

He should have expected that answer. He took a deep breath. "Karen... I'm going to try something. I don't know if it's going to do any good, but I don't think it'll make things worse. If I'm wrong... if you want me to stop, tell me, okay?"

In most cases, Matt would never say that his radar sense was superior to the vision he'd lost. The ability to pick up shapes and contours and know when he was about to hit a wall would have paled had he been one to brood on what he had lost. Faces, colors, the ability to watch a movie and know what was going on when the actors weren't talking... But lying in bed next to the woman he loved in the wee hours of the morning, when it had to be pitch-black in the room, even had his vision been perfect, his eyes could never have caught Karen's slight nod. His radar sense did. He got up carefully, pulled back the blanket, and lay back down. Gently, he ran his fingers over her back, wincing a bit in sympathy when he felt the tightness in her muscles.

Thanks in no small part to the lessons he'd learned from Stick years ago, Matt had more than a passing knowledge of acupressure. When his own body had ached after a particularly strenuous training session, rather than allow him to follow a lighter regimen for a few days, the elderly sensei had directed him to lie down. Matt remembered feeling Stick's fingers pushing down on his muscles like steel pegs. And then, his pain had vanished.

"There are a lot of things you can do, once you understand a few things about pressure points, kid," Stick had said. Then they'd gone on with the training. But later, much later, Stick had given Matt more instruction in acupressure massage—instruction Matt was now grateful for. He found the right places on her back and pressed down gently, the techniques coming back to him from those long ago days. Under his ministrations, he felt Karen slowly relax. He kept going, he didn't know how long. He focused on the feeling of her loosening muscles under his fingers, on the scents of lavender-mint shampoo in her hair and Irish Spring soap on her body, on the way her rapid, shallow breathing gradually slowed and lengthened.

It wasn't until Matt was sure that she had finally fallen asleep that he withdrew his hands from her back. For several long moments, he lay next to her, listening to her heartbeat. Then, carefully, so as not to disturb her, he got up and made his way back to the living room, where the recliner awaited him.

* * *

When Foggy awoke several hours later, it was to the mouth-watering aromas of eggs, bacon, and coffee. He found Matt in the kitchen, standing over the stove.

"Morning, Foggy," Matt said without turning around.

"I didn't know you could cook."

Matt snorted. "I've been living alone for years and there is _way_ too much salt in most takeout and processed foods." He flipped an egg onto a waiting plate, added two strips of bacon and shoved it at Foggy. "Here."

Foggy blinked. Then he fished a knife and fork out of the drainage tray and sat down at the table. A bit nervously, he lifted a forkful of bacon to his mouth. Then, "Matt... This is good. I mean, really good. Like 'better than the Farmer's Breakfast at Peel's, down on Bowery' good."

"I'm glad. Karen's going to need to eat something," he lowered his voice a drop, "whether she wants to or not."

"Ah." Foggy frowned. "I didn't just eat her breakfast, did I? You could have said something."

Matt shook his head. "No, I figured as long as I was making breakfast, I might as well do it for the three of us. I'll put up more eggs when I know she's awake."

"Oh. Wait." His frown, which had disappeared with Matt's explanation, returned. "I didn't just eat your breakfast, did I?"

Matt cracked another egg into the pan. "I figured if you came in here before I sat down, it was yours. Mine'll be ready in a minute." He hesitated. "You really like it?"

"Isn't your lie detector working?"

Matt didn't say anything until he had his own bacon and eggs on a plate and joined Foggy at the table. "Just fishing for compliments, I guess," he admitted. "I haven't really cooked much for other people. I worry that, with my sense of taste as keen as it is, what's flavorful for me might be bland for everyone else."

Foggy's fork scraped the plate. "That's one worry you can put to bed," he declared. "Seriously."

Matt smiled. "Well, good, then." He took a sip of coffee and made a face. "I wasn't expecting decaf to be quite this... Uh... you don't have herbal tea, do you?"

"No. I guess I can pick some up when I go out to do laundry, if you like." Foggy chuckled. "I don't know why I even have that stuff. Debbie used to drink it. I think I might have kept it around when I still thought there was a chance we'd reconcile."

"Please. Actually," he hesitated for a moment, "maybe I should make a list. Karen's going to need food that's both healthy and easy to digest, at least for the next few days."

"Got it. Let me put some _real_ coffee on for us."

"Better not for awhile," Matt said slowly. "I admit I don't know everything there is to know about drug detox, but I think when someone goes into rehab, the staff keep them away from all addictive substances, including caffeine. Maybe that's not strictly necessary. Like I said, I'm not an expert. But I think that, for the next week or so, maybe we could try to stick to decaf in here." He shook his head apologetically. "I know that's asking a lot."

Foggy let out a breath. "Well, it's not like there aren't any coffee shops around. I guess I can go out if I really need a cup that badly."

"Peppermint tea is usually good for staying awake," Matt replied. "I'll probably be going through a lot of that myself." He smiled. "Okay. I'll write up that list in a few minutes."

"Matt?" Foggy ventured. "Do you want to do the shopping after I get back from the laundry? I mean, you aren't planning to stay cooped up in here for a whole week, are you?"

Matt shook his head. "I'm not thinking that far in advance, to be honest. I do want to be here for the first couple of days, until Karen's over the worst of the withdrawal. Once that happens, the next step would be to get a support group in place to help her avoid relapse, and we can deal with other stuff as it comes up."

"You mentioned a support group last night," Foggy remembered. "Where would you find something like that?"

Matt took a gulp of decaf. "I'll make some inquiries," he said. "I know there's a church not too far from Fogwell's in the Kitchen. They run a homeless shelter and a soup kitchen, or they used to. I'm not sure if they have rehab services too, but odds are that if they don't, they'll know who does. It's a starting point, anyway."

Foggy nodded. "Sounds good. When were you thinking of going?"

"In a couple of days," Matt said, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen door. "She should be past the worst of the pain by then."

"Matt..." Foggy stopped, thinking it over. Matt was more focused now than he had been in weeks. Ever since his life had gone to hell, he'd been drowning in depression and self-pity. He'd started coming out of it when Foggy had asked him to teach him how to defend himself. He'd rallied when Spider-Man had asked him for legal assistance. And now, Karen. It made sense. Whether as a defense attorney or as Daredevil, Matt had dedicated himself to helping people in need. Kingpin's actions had rendered him incapable of providing that assistance in either guise—something that had likely contributed to his breakdown. In trying to be there for others... for him, for Spidey, and now, for Karen, Matt was slowly, surely, pulling himself out of whatever dark place he'd retreated to when everything around him had collapsed. He needed to be there for Karen as much as Karen needed him to be there for her.

Fine. If extending himself for other people was helping him, then Foggy wasn't going to try talking him out of it. Still, he had been through far too much recently. Foggy took a deep breath. "If you need a break, let me know."

* * *

After Foggy left, Matt remained in the kitchen. Yesterday's paper was on the table and he hadn't read it yet. More for something to do than out of interest, he ran his fingers lightly over the page, reading the news.

When he heard the bedroom door open, he smiled and got up to make another batch of eggs. He would have added bacon, but in her condition, she probably wouldn't be able to keep it down.

Karen walked past the kitchen doorway in the direction of the bathroom.

The butter was sizzling in the pan and he was just about to crack open the first egg, when he heard a noise he wished he hadn't: the sound of the door of the medicine cabinet sliding back. He turned off the stove and headed for the bathroom.

"Karen?" He tried the door. Locked, but a wire hanger would take care of that. He got one from the closet in the bedroom. Less than a moment later, he heard the latch click and pushed open the door.

Karen was lying on the bathroom floor, the contents of Foggy's medicine cabinet—at least the contents that had remained after Matt had taken out all of the over-the-counter-medications the night before—scattered around her. Karen was sobbing and pawing through the mess.

"Karen." Matt knelt next to her. "Karen, I'm right here."

"Matt...?" Her voice was a hoarse croak. "I just... I need something. Hurts... hurts so bad..."

As he had the night before, he stroked her hair. "I know," he whispered. "I know. Hang in there." He pulled her up and into an embrace, ruthlessly ignoring his own pain. She needed him and he was damned if he was going to let his busted ribs stop him from being there for her. "You're not alone. You're going to get through this. It's going to be okay."

Shaking, Karen buried her head in Matt's shoulder. "I can't," she hiccupped. "I thought I could beat this, but I can't. Hurts too bad. Please, Matt. I just need a little fix to help me through. Just a little one."

"Karen..."

"I'm dying, Matt! Help me!" Her anger drained and she wept brokenly once more. "Please..."

He ran his fingertips gently over her back and found the pressure points again. He wasn't sure how long he sat with her, stroking, rubbing, massaging, and rocking her gently until her sobs quieted and she relaxed in his arms.

"You should eat something," he said softly.

"Don't think I could," Karen murmured. "Feel like I'm gonna..." Still on her knees, she lurched for the toilet bowl, barely making it in time to void the contents of her stomach. When she was done, she slid back to the floor with a whimper.

Matt sat next to her and gently combed her hair with his fingers.

* * *

Getting the both of them upright was a challenge all its own, but Matt managed it. He filled a glass of water from the sink and coaxed her to drink it. He waited until he was sure that she could keep it down before he helped her get back to the bedroom.

When Foggy returned, he found the two of them lying on the bed, Karen curled up under the blankets, Matt on top of them, curled around her, one arm draped protectively around her waist.

At first, he thought that they were both asleep, but then Karen moaned and Matt pulled her closer to him.

"I'll be in the living room," he said finally. "Tell me if you need anything."

Matt nodded. Karen twitched.

* * *

Later, with Matt's coaxing, Karen managed to finish a bowl of broth. And, although she insisted that she wasn't hungry for anything more, she consented to join Matt and Foggy at the table for supper and barely protested when Matt put small portions of sautéed greens, mashed sweet potatoes, boiled rice, and broiled chicken on her plate.

"Just eat as much as you think you can keep down," Matt said. "Nobody's telling you you've got to finish it."

"You realize," Foggy said, through a mouthful of chicken, "that I am probably never going to be able to show my face at that grocery store again. That cashier took one look at what I put down on the counter and stared at me like I was a pod-person."

"You should have said you were your twin brother, Percy," Matt smiled.

Karen made a noise that might have been a sniff or a very faint laugh. Foggy gave her a quick grin before turning his attention back to Matt. "Right. With this physique," he clapped his hands to his torso for emphasis, "I should be able to pull off posing as my non-existent brother, the health-nut, without a hitch." He took another bite of chicken. "Though I have to admit, if you keep cooking like this, healthy might not be so bad."

"You have a stash of Twinkies and Cheez-Its right by your pillow on the sofa, don't you?"

"Excuse me for not being sure if I'd like kale."

"And now that you know you like it, you're going to dump the junk food?"

Foggy deliberately lifted a forkful of kale to his mouth, chewed and swallowed. "Not when I paid good money for it," he replied virtuously. "_That_ would be wasteful."

This time, Karen definitely laughed. "You guys," she said, with a catch in her throat. "I missed you. You don't know how much." Without warning, she clapped both hands to her mouth.

"Karen?" Foggy was half out of his chair, reaching toward her. "Are you..."

Karen took a couple of deep, slow breaths. "Stomach just did a flip," she groaned.

"Here," Matt rose to his feet. "Let's get you to the..."

She shook her head. "It's okay," she said weakly. "I think it's going to be okay. As long as I just... sit here and don't try getting up."

"Hang on," Foggy said. "One sec..." He walked over to the kitchen sink and rummaged in the cabinet below for a moment. "Here we go," he said, holding up an empty plastic ice cream tub. "Keep one of these with you for the next little while," he said, placing it on the table next to Karen. "Hopefully, you won't need it, but if you do... no harm done." He grinned. "Don't look at me that way. When I get a stomach virus, I have to tough it out without two dedicated nurses at my beck and call. How do you think I manage with some of the nastier symptoms in an emergency?"

"You know," Matt said, "you could have called me if you were that bad."

"Right. Between taking over my caseload and running around in red tights, when exactly would you have hypothetically found time to play Florence Nightingale? And you can wipe that guilty expression off your face, too. If you'd insisted, I'd have yelled at you to think of the clients and get out of here."

Matt shook his head, but he was smiling. "Foggy... I don't know if you've noticed, but those clients didn't stand by me at a grand jury hearing that appeared to be open-and-shut against me. They didn't take me in when I had nothing but the clothes on my back and ten dollars in my pocket. They didn't jump off a pier to save me from—what probably would have been—a posthumous murder rap."

"What?" Karen broke in.

"I'll fill you in later," Matt promised.

He turned back to Foggy. "Granted, my not thinking of the clients contributed in no small part to our firm's foundering. That being said... I haven't worn the red tights in weeks and the city's still standing."

"You're not thinking of giving up...?"

Matt shook his head. "No. Once my ribs are healed I'll be out there again. But, to answer your question, I started out as Daredevil to avenge Dad's murder. I kept on because I wanted to help people when the system couldn't. I just... think there's something wrong with my priorities, if... if you're one of the people who needs help and I'm looking farther afield, is all." He ducked his head, an old reflex from when he could still establish eye contact.

After a moment, Foggy patted his arm. "Yeah, well, if I need you, I'll tell you. Most of the time, I can handle a stomach virus without an audience." He smiled. "Hey. Thanks."

Wordlessly, Matt covered Foggy's hand with his own.

* * *

Paulo smiled grimly as he walked into the restaurant. This was the place he'd overheard Karen tell that friend of hers to meet her at. He approached the counter and the barkeep nodded to him. "Yeah?"

For answer, Paulo reached into his coat, pulled out a video cassette, and showed it to the man.

The barkeep glanced at it and let out an appreciative whistle. "She is fine," he said. "Not in the market for it, but she is."

"No," Paulo said. "I'm looking for her. Karen Page. She was in here last night. Said she was meeting an old friend, name of Foggy. You see her?"

The barkeep shook his head. "I wasn't working last night." He glanced over his shoulder. "Hey. Salvatore! Maybe you know who this guy's talking about?"

In answer to the summons, a barista hurried up. Once Paulo repeated his story, the second man frowned. "I don't know if I saw her," he said slowly. "She might have come in. A body like that? I think I'd remember if I'd served her. But that other name you said... Foggy. That rings a bell. My cousin, Nicky ran into some legal troubles a few years back. He got lucky, got a guy to handle it pro bonus... I think they call it. Free, you know? Well, that lawyer who helped him out, his name was Foggy. Foggy... Nelson."

Paulo smiled. "Foggy Nelson, eh? Any idea where I'd find him?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 **

The second night was nearly as bad as the first. Again, Matt woke to the sound of Karen's moans and he stumbled to her room and lay next to her until she quieted. When he was sure that she was sleeping soundly, he made his way back to the recliner. He was settling in when he realized that the sounds in the living room had changed. More accurately, one sound had stopped: Foggy's snores. Matt winced. He should have gotten to Karen faster, before her whimpers had roused the both of them. "Sorry I woke you," he said softly.

There was a moment's silence. Then, "You didn't. I woke up on my own. How's Karen doing?"

Matt sighed. "In terms of getting the stuff she was on out of her system? She's coming along. In terms of how she feels right now? Unless you only just got up, I guess you heard."

"That built-in polygraph of yours picks up on white lies, too, right?"

"Yes."

"In that case," Foggy admitted, "yes, I heard. Next time, wake me. I mean, you're still recuperating."

"The nurse at the clinic told me I need to move around."

"You also need fresh air." The sofa creaked as Foggy turned on his side. "Get out for a bit tomorrow, Matt. I mean it. Take a walk. I've got some stuff to do around here anyway."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I started going through that stack of mail that piled up while we were away. There were a few job offers in the pile. I added them to the ones that came in before; I figured with the holidays on us, nobody was going to be hiring until about now and..." His voice trailed off. "Nothing."

Matt mentally filled in the blanks. He knew what kind of shape he'd been in when Foggy had brought him here. Evidently, Foggy had also had some inkling. And before he started verbally chastising his friend for looking after him at the cost of possible job prospects, Matt reflected, perhaps he needed to remember that he'd committed himself to staying in the apartment until Karen was further along in her recovery. "Thanks," he said softly. "For 'nothing'."

"Aw, 't'weren't 'nothing'," Matt heard the smile in his voice, as Foggy continued. "Anyway, I haven't finished sorting through all the offers, but there's one that's looks almost too good to be true. The salary, the benefits, they're all... Offhand, do you know of anyone at Kelco?"

Silence.

"Matt? Did you fall asleep on me?"

"No. I can't get it now; it's in the bedroom and I don't want to risk waking Karen."

"Huh?"

"Don't call Kelco, yet. I want to make sure I'm right before I try talking you out of it."

Foggy sat up on the sofa. "Talking me out of what, Matt?"

"I hope I'm wrong," Matt said heavily. "I want you to believe that. I might have inadvertently sabotaged our firm, but the last thing I want is to do something similar to your future prospects."

"Are you making sense, yet?"

"If I'm right," Matt said slowly, "then you probably don't want to work for Kelco, no matter what they're offering. If I'm right, then that's one of Wilson Fisk's holdings." He heard Foggy's heart rate jump, but his best friend said nothing. "You don't know," Matt continued finally, "how much I hope I'm wrong. But I'm pretty sure that it was one of the names that came up when I was going to the library and researching Fisk's activities. I'm almost positive. I'm sorry."

Foggy let out a long breath. "Oh... golly."

* * *

Somehow, despite Matt's revelation, Foggy managed to fall back asleep and when he woke again, some four hours later, Matt was still in deep slumber in the recliner. Foggy wondered whether Karen had roused him again during the night. He shook his head sadly. A month ago, he'd never have predicted any of this. And now...

He reached for one of the stacks of opened mail on the end-table, thinking that it was the job offers. Instead, he found himself looking at his credit card bill. It was quite a bit higher than usual and, even though it was to be expected, it had still been a slight shock to see the total in print. A month ago, he hadn't been expecting to take Matt clothes shopping. Coming up with first-and-last on the new apartment had eaten into his bank account, forcing him to put more than usual on the AmEx this month, which meant that the next bill would be even higher. He sighed. There was no help for it. Much as he hated the idea of dipping into his MMA, this month, it looked like he was going to have to. He reached for the second stack of papers and studied the Kelco offer again.

After a moment or two, he got up, reached for the bathrobe that lay crumpled on the floor by the sofa, and headed for the kitchen to make coffee. Decaf wasn't nearly as good as the real stuff, but it was still better than nothing. He had an idea, but he wanted to see if it would still make as much sense when he was more alert. He'd see if the flavor of the coffee would be enough to jump-start his mind and if it wasn't, then he was going to put Matt's 'apples and peppermint tea' trick to the test.

Of course, if he was going to do that, he'd best get it done before Matt woke up or Matt would probably be gloating for the better part of the morning...

* * *

When Matt came into the kitchen, Foggy was cutting up his third waffle. "The box is in the freezer if you want some," he said, lifting a piece and waiting for the syrup to finish dripping onto his plate.

Matt shook his head. "No thanks. But if you have a waffle iron, I'll fix some from scratch." He smiled apologetically. "Once the box has been opened, I can always taste freezer burn."

"No waffle iron," Foggy sighed. "Now, if you wanted to do pancakes..."

Matt considered. "That's an idea." A frown creased his forehead. "I thought I left the peppermint tea on the counter. Have you seen it?"

"Uh... yeah. It's here on the table. Sorry."

"It's for all of us," Matt pointed out. "The only problem is that while it stays fresher in the tin, once it's sealed, I can't sniff it out. So, if you could put it back where you..." He stopped. "I'm sorry. It's your kitchen. Just tell me where you'd like me to keep it."

Foggy blinked. "Anywhere. I'll try to remember where I get it from." He frowned. "Are you okay?"

"I am," Matt said, nodding, his dismayed expression yielding to puzzlement. "Are you? Your heart rate's speeding up."

"Ah." Foggy sighed. "No, I'm fine. I was just thinking. Wait. So, you can't really tell if I'm upset. You just notice when my heartbeat changes and try to guess what it means?"

Matt tilted his head to one side and frowned, thinking. "It depends on the person. Your heart rate tends to speed up when you're annoyed and trying to bottle it up and pretend it's not a big deal. Of course, it speeds up when you're frightened, too, but I didn't think I was scaring you." He stopped. "I'm not, am I?"

"No."

"But you are scared."

He was about to deny it when he remembered that Matt would spot the lie in a (literal) heart beat. "I had a crazy idea," he said. "That scares me because I don't usually _get_ crazy ideas."

"Except for the time that you wanted Karen to think that you were Daredevil."

"I said 'not usually'."

"The time you grew a moustache?"

"That was a fashion statement." His lips twitched. "And before you make any further comment on that score, note that I will be referencing your," he coughed, "choice of attire as Mike Murdock, should the need arise."

"I'll withdraw the question," Matt said easily. "And substitute another: what kind of crazy idea?"

Foggy took a deep breath. "You know that letter from Kelco? What kind of danger would I be in if I called them about it? I mean, we know that Kingpin knows I'm alive, so this isn't going to be news. He obviously already knows where I live..."

Matt held up a hand. "Back up. What do you mean, 'if you called them'? Do you _want_ to work for Kingpin?"

"Not exactly," Foggy said. "Not long-term, anyway. But two things have occurred to me. One: if we take a leaf out of his playbook, the best way to take him down is to come at him from an angle he won't expect. Once he knows you're alive, he's going to figure you'll go after him—which you will, of course. But how were you going to do it?"

"I..." Matt frowned. "I haven't really been thinking much about that in the last couple of days. Obviously, going to his office to beat the tar out of him isn't going to work. I guess that, when the time comes, I'll go after his people, get them to cough something up and play it from there. Even if I can't stop him that way, I can still hurt him."

Foggy nodded. "Yeah. That might work. Except, it's sort of what he'd expect, isn't it?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

Foggy flinched at the irritation in his best friend's voice. "Well, I don't know if it's better," he admitted. "But it's different. I'll admit it's not particularly original. I mean, it's," he swallowed, "well, it's kind of his. Tweaked a little, I mean."

"Elaborate?"

"Go after him where it hurts. You take out Kingpin's lieutenants, and he'll just promote more underlings. A direct confrontation didn't work last time."

"I wasn't at the top of my game last time."

"I know. That's not the point. The point is that he'll be expecting it. Just like you expect to be in danger when you put on that costume. I'm not sure I understand why you keep doing it; I know I couldn't, but evidently, it works for you. Or, at least, it was working for you until just a little while ago. Anyway, getting back to my point, when you go out as Daredevil, you expect trouble to come at you. When you've had enough and you want to relax, you show up at the office—when we've got one—and unwind."

"Well," Matt replied, "actually, I'd do that at home, but I guess that _is _more or less accurate."

"He came at you through your home, too, if you recall. He didn't go after you as Daredevil. He went after you as Murdock. I think we need to borrow that playbook."

"We?"

Foggy ignored the question. "If we can find evidence tying Wilson Fisk to organized crime, even if we can't prove he's the head of the underworld, his reputation as a legitimate businessman will be toast. Gee... if only you had someone on the inside who—"

"No!" It came out louder than Matt had intended and he immediately lowered his voice, knowing that Karen was still asleep. "No. Foggy, he almost killed _me_. If you're caught..."

"Then I won't be caught. I'll keep my head down, and do my job, _but_ every day, I'll be going in there knowing exactly who owns the firm, paying attention to every bit of paper on my desk, looking for an edge. Then, when I get home, I'll discuss what I'm working on with you and we'll see whether, between the two of us, we can find something—_anything_—that we can use to build a case against him that might stick."

"It's too dangerous. Did it occur to you that the offer might be a trap? He might be waiting for you to let it slip that I'm alive."

"Actually, Matt," Foggy said, "it did. Until I took a look at the date on the letter and the postmark on the envelope. It was from one day after the grand jury hearing. At the time the letter was sent, you hadn't gone to confront him, yet. He might not even have known that you were here."

Despite himself, Matt's lips twitched. "It seems like I wasn't the only one impressed by your defense."

"I can do without _his_ seal of approval, thank you very much. Anyway, the way I see it, this could work to your advantage. I've got a chance to see what kind of cases Kelco actually handles and how they handle them. Which brings me to point number two: they're offering a _very_ good salary. And, while I'd normally want to tell Kingpin what he can go do with his money, I can't help thinking that taking it and using it to help finance the guy who's going to eventually take him down..."

The twitch became a smile. "There is a certain elegance to it," Matt admitted. His smile faded. "Foggy, you're not just thinking of taking the job for the money? I hate not being able to contribute my share of expenses, but—"

"No. I'm managing for now," Foggy said. "I can't keep living off my savings forever; they're going down, but I'm nowhere near destitute. I just figure if Kingpin's got the IRS keeping you away from what's rightfully yours, it's only fair that you get some sort of compensation from him. Maybe, after all this, you can thank him—right before you send him off to Ryker's."

The smile was back. "Well, when you put it that way..." He shook his head. "As far as your first reason, you're probably not going to find anything major. Fisk owns a number of law firms and does business with many more. It's how he spreads his influence around."

"Not really surprised."

"No," Matt said slowly. "You aren't. So then..."

"Matt? Why would you spend half your time upholding the law and half your time taking the law into your own hands?"

"Excuse me?"

"Answer the question, counselor. Or I'll take a stab at it myself. I'm guessing that at some point, you figured out that what was legal wasn't necessarily what was right. Playing both sides helps you balance the scales. How'm I doing?"

"Go on," Matt prompted, his expression unreadable.

"We've both had first-hand experience facing off against companies that know how to exploit the law and find the loopholes that let them do pretty much whatever the heck they want to, no matter who suffers. Well," he said slowly, "knowing that Kelco is one of Fisk's companies and Fisk likes to do pretty much whatever the heck he wants to, maybe I'm jumping to conclusions here, but what if this turns out to be one of those aforementioned companies?"

"It probably will," Matt acknowledged, "but what are you going to do? It might not be right, but if it's legal..."

"How much does Fisk value his reputation as a legitimate businessman? I admit I haven't been paying much attention, but whenever there's a charity fundraiser or a dedication or an endowment fund, his name seems to come up on a lot of donor plaques."

"Oh, yes," Matt nodded. "He does pride himself on his philanthropy. Or money laundering. I'm not sure there's a difference."

"So, it would hurt him if, say, the press were to find out about some of lengths he's willing to go to in order to win a case? Manolis probably wasn't the first guy he bribed into saying what he wanted. If word of that got out, the hit to his reputation would be..."

"You do realize that your plan is based on a chain of suppositions and probability with no real proof."

"Yet," Foggy said stubbornly. "Look, I'm not going to go poking around and asking suspicious questions. I'm just going to look very carefully at anything that comes onto my desk. Meanwhile, at least we get the satisfaction of knowing that Kingpin is paying a small sum toward getting himself put behind bars where he belongs."

Matt hesitated. "You're serious about taking no unnecessary risks?"

"What does your polygraph tell you?"

"I don't know. You haven't answered the question."

Foggy sighed. "I'm serious. I'm not you. If I try playing Sherlock Holmes, I'll probably be wearing cement shoes and taking another dip in the East River. I'm not an idiot."

"Four truthful statements," Matt smiled. "Especially that last one. All right. Call Kelco. But be careful." He pushed his chair away from the table. "Karen just got up," he said. "I'll start the pancakes. Are you still hungry?"

"If you make pancakes as well as you make eggs," Foggy smiled back, "I'll find room for them."

* * *

Paulo prowled the sidewalk restlessly. He'd been staking out the apartment building for several hours and he'd seen no sign of Karen Page, or of anybody resembling the man whom the server had described to him. He shifted nervously from one foot to the next. This was a well-to-do neighborhood and he looked—and felt—out of place, here. Nelson must be doing well for himself to live in a place like this.

As he watched, a yellow taxicab came to a halt before the apartment building doors and an attractive young woman in a stylish fur coat emerged, a purse over one shoulder and a department store shopping bag in the opposite hand. As she walked up the steps to the front door, the doorman sprang to open it. "Good morning, Mrs. Nelson! Oh. I'm so sorry, ma'am. Ms Harris."

"Quite all right, Rodney," the woman replied warmly. "The divorce won't be final for another month, so until then, 'Mrs. Nelson' is still accurate."

"Of course, ma'am. Welcome home."

As the door closed behind her, Paulo's eyes narrowed. It looked like the address in the phone book was out of date. Foggy Nelson clearly didn't live here anymore. He muffled a curse, thinking about the time he'd wasted waiting on the street for him, turned on his heel, and walked off in the direction of the subway.

It looked like he would have to keep looking for Karen Page.

* * *

The object of Paulo's search was, at the moment, struggling to get through the two pancakes on her plate. "I'm sorry," she said finally. "I don't think I can keep it down." She hugged herself miserably. "C-could you turn up the heat. I'm fr-freezing."

Matt moved his chair closer to hers and wrapped an arm around her. "I know it doesn't help much, but shivering and stomach cramps are pretty much par for the course for heroin withdrawal. You're going to get through this." With his free hand, he covered one of hers. "You're doing fine."

"I don't _feel_ fine," Karen protested. "I feel like I'm gonna..." She clapped a hand to her mouth and bolted from the kitchen.

"Trust me," Foggy said, free-pouring syrup over pancakes, plate, and the bowl with the half-grapefruit that Matt had pointedly set down next to it. "It's not your cooking."

"I know," Matt sighed. "The first two days are the worst. I'm not sure whether this counts as day two, or day three. Not that it makes a huge difference." He shook his head. "I'm staying in today. We'll see about tomorrow."

Foggy sighed. "There's really no point in my protesting, is there?" he asked. "I just would have thought that with everything you usually do, being cooped up for days on end would be getting to you."

Matt winced. "It is, a little," he admitted. "But..."

"But nothing," Foggy snapped. "Go for a walk. Here." He reached for his wallet and pulled out two bills. "Feed the ducks in Central Park. Buy some flowers for Karen. Head on over to West 39th and 8th and see if Paron Fabrics has any red leather in stock. Meanwhile, I'm going to call Kelco and see if they've filled that position, yet."

"You do know it's New Year's Day, right?"

"Fine. Check out Paron tomorrow. While I call Kelco."

Matt smiled reluctantly. Now that Foggy was coming up with suggestions, he had to admit that getting outside did sound good. He didn't want to leave Karen, though he knew that she'd be fine with Foggy. "Before you do," he said, walking toward the wall phone, "let me give Ben a shout. He may know something about them already."

He frowned, thinking. He never had gotten that phone number from Spider-Man, but now that he was in a better frame of mind, he thought he remembered Ben's direct line. Ben might not be there, but the _Bugle_ offices never closed and the news never stopped. Ben often went in on weekends and holidays; it was worth a shot. He dialed seven digits and was rewarded by Ben's tired laconic tones on the other end of the line. "Ben? It's Matt."

There was a long pause. Then, in a panicky voice, just louder than a whisper, Ben said, "I don't know anyone by that name!" The line went dead.

Stunned, Matt held onto the receiver for several long seconds, before returning it to its hook. "What in the world...?" he said, talking more to himself than to Foggy.

"Matt?"

"He hung up on me," Matt said disbelievingly. "Something's wrong. I'll... try to connect with him some other way." His consternation gave way to another smile, as Karen walked back to the table. She was trailing something behind her. To Matt's radar sense, it appeared to be a torn blanket, but his nose told a different story.

"Is it okay if I hold onto this?" Karen asked hesitantly. "I found it in the bureau drawer. It... I know it sounds silly, but somehow, I feel like I can deal with... stuff... better if it's with me."

Matt's smile broadened. "The costume's had that effect on me too, every now and again," he admitted. "If it helps you, it's yours." He touched her shoulder. "I'm going to go out for a little bit. Will you be okay here with Foggy? I shouldn't be too long."

He didn't miss the way her hand squeezed the costume all the more tightly. "When will you be back?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her an hour, but time sometimes got away from him and he knew she'd worry if he were late. "I shouldn't be too long," he repeated. "There are just some things I need to check out. I don't know exactly how much time I need, but I expect I'll be back for lunch. His hand flew to his Braille watch. It wasn't even nine o'clock, yet. He knew that Ben generally stopped for coffee at the same restaurant at ten. Maybe Ben would talk to him face to face, even if he wouldn't take his calls.

"Hey," Foggy said, "I'll still be here, gorgeous."

"I know," Karen said. "I can't help worrying about Paulo, though. What if he followed me? What if the men who were after me in Mexico catch up?"

"Well," Foggy said with a self-assurance he didn't fully feel, "Matt _has_ taught me a thing or two about breaking kneecaps."

"He's very good," Matt confirmed, adding mentally, _for someone who's been practicing for about three weeks_.

His statement had the desired effect on Karen, though. Her heart rate slowed noticeably and the tension seemed to leave her body. "You won't be too late?" she pleaded. "Please?"

Matt kissed her forehead. "I won't be too late," he promised. "Just eat, rest, and concentrate on getting better. I'll be back as quick as I can."

As he closed the apartment door behind him, he heard Foggy say, "You notice he ducked out leaving _me_ with all the dirty dishes, right?"

* * *

He'd been a bit worried about finding his way to the restaurant from Foggy's. He knew how to get there from his brownstone or from the office. He could find it easily enough swinging from rooftop to flagpole. He hadn't been sure about getting there on foot from a different starting point, but it didn't take long for him to get his bearings.

When he was a block away from his destination, he wrinkled his nose. Something was burning.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: In 1986, minimum wage in New York would have been $3.35/hour. A short order cook today makes about 20% above minimum wage on average. I figured the same ratio would probably hold.

A/N: Use of Halon 1211 was discontinued in fire extinguishers circa 1994.

References: Daredevil Vol. 1 #226, 228.

**Chapter 15**

Almost as soon as he registered the acrid odor of smoke, he realized that the situation was far from serious. There were other smells in play that painted a clear picture for him: burned eggs, charred bacon, the faintly sweet smell of Halon 1211—commonly used in fire extinguishers... He fought down a wave of nausea and pressed onward.

The odors were emanating from his destination. As he drew closer, he found that he could isolate specific voices and distinguish particular conversations. Restaurant patrons were complaining about the stink. Someone was apologizing nervously and trying to explain that their regular cook hadn't shown up and the other kitchen staff were trying to handle the grill on top of their other duties. Whoever the server was talking to didn't sound at all understanding. He was going on about 'stupid incompetent kids who weren't even worth minimum wage'.

Matt's jaw hardened. He quickened his pace, following his ears and nose to the site of the quarrel.

* * *

Although the smoke was dissipating rapidly, the burned food odors still hung heavy in the air. Matt noted that many of the patrons were fanning themselves with their hands, trying to wave away the smells.

The man he'd heard before was still yelling at the server. "And how long do I have to wait for breakfast now, huh? Jeez are you people still hung over from partying last night? I just want a cup of coffee and some French toast. Even a high school dropout like you should be able to handle that!"

Now that he was in the restaurant, Matt realized that he did smell alcohol, but it wasn't coming from the server. The woman sounded close to tears.

"Sir, as I keep telling you, our cook hasn't come in. We're doing our best to get the orders out—"

"Well, your best isn't good enough! Where's the manager? No. No, girlie. Where's the frigging owner? I need someone with the authority to fire you."

Matt's jaw hardened. He took a step toward the angry patron. Then he realized that there were a number of customers who were observing the scene, that more than one stomach was rumbling, that if he stepped in to defend the server (and teach the irate customer why bullying was a bad idea), there would be a number of witnesses on hand and he wasn't wearing a mask. Maybe there was a different way to defuse the situation.

"Excuse me," he said, projecting his voice so that it carried over the other conversations. "I think I heard you just say that the reason for the delay is that you're short a cook?"

The patron spun toward him. "Butt out of what don't concern you, mac."

"I wasn't asking you," Matt said shortly. He inclined his head toward the server. "Ma'am?"

The woman nodded and tried to compose herself, though her apprehension remained. "Uh... yes. That's right."

Matt smiled. "I know this is kind of irregular, but I do know my way around a grill. Maybe I can help..."

* * *

Almost an hour later, Otto Schnapp came rushing into the diner he and his wife owned, anticipating disaster, after the call that had woken him up that morning. Once he'd understood the situation, he'd bolted out of bed and dressed rapidly, but the taxi he'd ordered had never arrived and, after forty minutes, he'd given up and taken the subway. He'd been bracing for an angry mob. To his astonishment, the scene that greeted him was busy but cheerful: customers deep in relaxed conversation, plated orders on the counter, quickly whisked away by hurrying servers. There was still a faint burnt-bacon odor, but it was fading rapidly amid the fragrances of coffee, eggs, toast, and pancakes. He did a double-take when he saw an unfamiliar person standing at the grill.

"Cora?" he called, beckoning to the senior server on duty. "I came as soon as you called. What's going on? Who's that?" he demanded, motioning toward the stranger behind the counter.

Cora shrugged her shoulders. "He's a lifesaver whoever else he is, Otto," she said. "He just jumped on when we were swamped and he's been at it ever since."

Otto's eyebrows shot up. "Just out of the blue like that?"

"Well, one of the customers started yelling at Yvonne," she jerked her head toward the newest hire, "acting like it was her fault the food was coming out slow. That guy offered to pitch in and with Jimmy a no-show..."

Otto watched as the stranger expertly flipped an egg onto a plate, then added two strips of bacon and a slice of toast. "The customers notice a difference?" he asked, as the plate hit the counter. He watched as Yvonne picked it up and sped to a nearby booth.

"Haven't heard a single complaint since he started."

Two slices of sausage joined three uniformly-sized, perfectly round pancakes on a second plate. Another server grabbed it.

"Jimmy hasn't called in?"

"Not a peep."

"Hmmmm..." Otto waited until the breakfast rush was over before he walked up to the stranger. "Morning. You eat anything today?" he asked.

The stranger turned to him. "Yes, I have," he replied. His lips twitched. "I'm guessing that if you're coming behind the counter and asking me that, you're probably the person whose permission I should have asked before I pitched in."

Otto snorted. "I wasn't here when you started. I just thought that if you'd come in, you were probably looking to _have _breakfast, not cook it for everyone else."

The stranger shook his head. "No, I was just passing by and I thought I saw someone I recognized. As it turns out, I was wrong." He frowned. "Actually, I'm going to need to get going shortly. I'm meeting someone."

"Ah." Otto hesitated. "Do you do... stuff like this often? Walk in to a place and start helping out as if you worked there?"

"Not usually," the stranger smiled. "But you needed a cook and my friends tell me I'm a good one. I figured, maybe you could use a hand."

"Hmmm." Otto regarded the stranger carefully. The clothes were quality, the voice polished, but Otto had seen too many people—particularly in this economic climate—whose fortunes had taken a sudden turn for the worse. To varying extents, they all had a somewhat reeling, slightly dazed look to them, as they tried to cope with their new circumstances. "Where are you working right now, son?" he asked. There it was: the slight hesitation, the embarrassed shuffle, the low, almost guilty, admission.

"I'm kind of... between jobs at the moment," the stranger said diffidently. "I'm sure something will turn up, though."

Despite his body language, his voice was confident. Otto half-believed him. And Jimmy hadn't come in, hadn't had the decency to call and let anyone know... And this guy was a good cook. And a _fast_ one. Otto thought for a moment. "You got a name?"

"Ma—uh... Mac. Mac... Jackson."

Otto smiled. "Well, Mac. I wouldn't want to keep you from your appointment, but could you be here for six-thirty tomorrow morning?"

Mac tilted his head, questioning. "Are you offering me a job?"

"Pay's four dollars an hour to start. Hours are six-thirty to three, with a half-hour off for lunch. Whaddaya say?"

Mac smiled. "It sounds great. Thank you." All at once, his smile dropped away.

Unconsciously, Otto leaned closer. "Something wrong?"

Mac shook his head. "Not really. Just... I was mugged yesterday. They got my wallet, including my social security card. I'm filling out the form for a replacement tomorrow, but I don't know how long it's going to take."

"Ah," Otto said. "Well, I think we can probably work something out."

"Really?"

Otto shrugged. "I need a cook. You need a job. Why let a hunk of plastic get in the way? We can sort out the paperwork another time."

This time, Mac's smile stayed.

* * *

He'd walked about half a block back toward Foggy's when he remembered how upset Karen had been this morning when he'd left. He didn't know how she was going to react to the idea of his being away for a good part of the day, five days a week. And if Foggy did take the offer from Kelco—or any other firm for that matter... Matt didn't think that leaving her alone in the apartment would be wise at this stage. He leaned against a lamppost and massaged his forehead, thinking.

Foggy had been right about one thing: he had needed to get out. He hadn't been prepared for the rush of freedom that had hit him with the morning breeze when he'd stepped out onto the street. Karen might need him, but he did need more time out of the apartment. And he needed this job... well, any job. He needed to start contributing something toward rent and groceries. He needed to remind himself that there was other work that he could do, now that being a lawyer was no longer an option.

But if Karen relapsed while he was away...

Matt let out a long breath. He'd never forgive himself if that happened. But there had to be some way that... The sound of a tolling bell gave him pause. Earlier, he'd told Foggy that one of the churches in this area might run a rehab program. He doubted that there'd be anything of the kind starting at six-thirty AM, but as long as he was in the area, it couldn't hurt to check it out.

With renewed purpose, he strode off in the direction of the bells.

* * *

After he'd explained the reason for his visit, he was invited to take a seat and told that someone would be with him shortly. Sure enough, it wasn't long before he heard the sound of rubber-soled shoes on hardwood. The stride was brisk and, at first, Matt guessed that the walker was in their thirties.

His breath caught. There was something familiar about the heart beat. Something nagging at his memory. Something...

"Mr. Jackson?"

The voice was older than he'd been expecting. He revised his mental image; the woman was probably in her fifties or sixties. He smiled. "Yes."

"I'm Sister Maggie. I understand that you're here to enquire about our addiction counseling services?"

He nodded and did his best to focus on the current situation, instead of trying to figure out when he'd met this woman. He was seldom at church, and when he was, it was even more seldom that he encountered any of the nuns. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd spoken to one since...

_Oh, my G-d. That's where I know her from._

But he doubted she remembered him after all this time. Plus, he was in disguise. It was the wrong time to bring up the past. Still, his voice grew warmer, as he explained the situation.

Sister Maggie proved a good listener, hearing him out without interrupting. Every now and again, she murmured sympathetically. When he was finished, she was silent for a long moment. But when she did speak, Matt couldn't help but notice the warmth in her voice.

"These doors are always open, Mr. Jackson. If you bring your friend by on your way to work, I can ensure that either myself or one of my colleagues will be on hand, even though our program won't start until ten. However, I need to be quite clear on one point," she added crisply.

"Yes?"

There was still a smile in her voice, but it was overlaid with a serious tone. "These walls are meant to provide refuge, Mr. Jackson. But we are neither an adult daycare nor a prison. If your friend chooses to leave, not a soul here will try to prevent her."

"I understand," Matt replied, nodding and trying to hide his concern. Sister Maggie was right: if Karen didn't want to be there, then they had no right to force her. He couldn't help but worry, though. Off the top of his head, he could name at least a dozen places within walking distance where a person who wanted a quick high would have the opportunity. "So, if she comes here at six-fifteen, say... but your programs don't start until ten, then what would she do for almost four hours?" He frowned. "And I'm supposing that the program doesn't run all the way to three, either, right?"

"Well," Sister Maggie said, "that would be up to her, of course, but we run many programs here, and almost all of them rely on volunteers. We have a homeless mission in our basement. Between six-thirty and eight-thirty, we serve breakfast. There is an afternoon preschool here that can always use another aide. If your friend wants something to do, I can promise you that we will find her something. And if she'd rather not, we won't force her. It will always be her choice."

"I understand," Matt said again. He frowned. "Sister... this may seem an odd question, but do you visit hospitals?"

"We do."

Matt shook his head. "No, not 'is it something your order does?' Do _you_? Or have you in the past?"

"I have," Maggie said. "Many times over the years. Why do you ask?"

"I..." Matt stopped, realizing that he shouldn't have started this line of questioning. It had been so long ago. Thanks to time, the hair dye, and the colored contacts, he probably didn't look much like the boy he had been—at least, he hoped not. And since he was trying to lie low, the last thing he should be doing was jogging someone's memory, hoping she'd make the same connection he had. He shook his head. "I was in an accident, when I was a teenager. Someone visited me in the hospital. A nun. You... remind me of her, I guess."

"Ah," Maggie replied sagely. "I believe the habit has something to do with it. People often tend to remember clothing more easily than faces."

Matt smiled. "Some do. It's all pretty much the same to me. I'm sorry to have bothered you about it."

"It's no bother," she returned. "Now, from what you're saying, she's still in recovery? It's been about two days?" When Matt nodded, she sighed. "I'm afraid that our support program is best equipped to help people who have already detoxed. If she's amenable, I would suggest that you bring her 'round in another four or five days. If you stop by to advise me the day before she's ready to start, I will make a point of being in the vicinity of the main doors the next morning at six. And Mac," her voice was kind, "If your friend decides not to come here, I do hope you'll stop by anyway, just to let me know."

"Of course."

"I'll look to see you in a few days, then, Mr. Jackson. Mac."

"In a few days," Matt confirmed.

It wasn't until he was out of the church and well on his way back to Foggy that a frown creased his face. Had Sister Maggie said 'Mac'? Or _Matt_?

* * *

Karen was easier to convince than Matt had thought. "I think you were right, before," she admitted. "It might help. Me talking to other people who know what this feels like." She hugged herself. "But I can't go outside like this; when the pain hits, I just want to curl up on the floor... and," her voice lowered, "I'm still running for the bathroom a lot."

Matt wrapped an arm across her shoulders and she leaned into him. "It seems to be a little better today, though," she murmured. "I think."

Foggy hadn't said much since Matt had told them about his morning. He did now. "Short order cook, Matt? Isn't that a bit of a comedown? I mean..." He broke off. "I know it's honest work and honest pay and all that, but it's barely over minimum wage. Don't you think you can do a little better?"

Matt shook his head. "How? I went from majoring in criminal justice to law school. Every elective I took at the undergrad level was something aimed at law school admissions: political science, rhetoric, psychology..." He sighed. "I don't think I'd even considered another career option since I was about nine or ten."

"Okay," Foggy said, "so, you're not going to apply to med school at this late date. But... paralegal work, maybe?"

Matt smiled. "Come on, Foggy. With everything that's been in the papers about me recently, who'd hire me? Besides you, I mean?" His smile fell away. "Besides, I think that would probably be worse; being in an environment where I'd be reminded every day of what I _used_ to do."

"There has to be some other..."

Matt shook his head again, but his smile was back. "Maybe there is, but I..." He took a breath. "Let me see if I can explain. A while back, my teacher—Stick; you remember, I told you about him—he told me that there were two sides to me. One side that studied and read and one that trained and fought. Only..." unconsciously, he squeezed Karen's shoulders, "neither one of those sides were really me."

"Excuse me?" Foggy breathed.

"He told me that I'd spent my whole life doing what other people told me, living up to their expectations. Dad wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer. I didn't question it; I kept my grades up, went to law school, went the distance, became a lawyer... and never once bothered asking myself whether it was something that _I _wanted. Stick wanted me to be a warrior. Same thing." He sighed. "Well, actually, I did eventually figure out where I stood on the fighting. Later. But the other part? I think, maybe, that's why I haven't been as into appealing the judgment as you've been. I never really thought about other options. Maybe this is a chance to do some exploring."

"Okay," Foggy said a bit more subdued, "fine. You want to find yourself. But what makes you think a greasy spoon is the right place to go looking?"

"I've got to start somewhere," Matt said lightly. Then, hearing the change in Foggy's heartbeat and an exasperated sigh, he relented. "It's something I've never done and kind of wanted to. When I was fourteen, someone in the neighborhood offered me a job. Nothing too exciting: just hand out flyers for his restaurant over the summer. Dad told me I needed to keep hitting the books. Same thing when I was sixteen. Dad had a few of his friends over to watch the Super Bowl. I was taking a break from studying to fix something to eat and it just seemed polite to make enough for everyone. One of Dad's guests was the guy who'd offered to hire me the first time. He liked..." Matt frowned, "...well, whatever it was I'd made; probably grilled cheese or deli sandwiches, I don't remember. But he asked me if I wanted to come by for a couple of hours after school to help with the supper rush. Dad vetoed it. After the game, when everyone else had left, I tried to convince him. I knew money was tight. I thought that maybe with a part-time job, I could help out with expenses. Dad wasn't getting too many fights at that time, as I recall. He shut me down, told me to let him worry about expenses. I tried telling him that I wouldn't mind having a bit more spending money. He told me that he could still give me everything I needed. And meanwhile, I'd hear the other kids talking about their jobs and saying how much they hated them, but it was obvious that they didn't. Joking about customers from hell... It wasn't that I wanted to deal with unreasonable people. More that I wanted my own 'war stories', if that makes sense."

"Kind of..." Foggy replied. "But Matt, you're not fourteen or even sixteen anymore. Wait." He got up, walked over to where Matt and Karen were sitting, and laid a hand on Matt's biceps. "Tell me you're not just taking this because, deep down, you think it's the only job you can get."

"No," Matt said easily. "It's not. I didn't go looking for this. It pretty much happened because someone was in trouble and there was something I could do to help. Nothing really new there. I mean, that's kind of been the story of my life for a while. Except... once I got behind the counter, I actually found out that I liked it. I honestly enjoyed myself this morning. And maybe in a week or so, it'll get old, but right now? I think I need it." His expression turned serious.

"Foggy, I can't thank you enough for everything you've done... are doing. Seriously. But I think I'm past the point where I need a place to just crash and deal with everything that's happened. I think that right now, this job is good for me. I doubt it'll become a new career, but short-term? No offense, but it beats trying to come up with things to do all day, while I'm counting down the minutes before I can go to Fogwell's."

Foggy sighed. "And I guess all of my telling you to let _me_ deal with expenses must have taken you back to when you were sixteen."

Matt's eyebrows shot up. "I hadn't thought about it," he said slowly, "but maybe it did. A bit. It's not that I'm not grateful—"

"I know." He put his free hand on Matt's other shoulder. "Okay. I'm calling Kelco tomorrow. We still don't know if the offer they made me is still open, but if it is, I'll tell them that I can't start for another week. If they won't accommodate, then," he shrugged expansively, "now that you're going to be contributing, I guess I can afford to keep looking."

Matt grinned.

* * *

He'd been awaiting the telephone call for over a week. When it came, however, the news it brought was not what he'd been expecting. The good humor that had suffused him since that evening dissipated in an instant. "Are you certain?" he demanded of the caller—one of his people on the NYPD Harbor Patrol. His voice was only marginally sharper than it should have been. When the informant confirmed it, he thanked him and hung up.

The Kingpin's jaw hardened, as he stood before the ceiling-to-floor glass window of his well-appointed office and mulled over what he'd just been told. The cab had been found. Police Forensics was in the process of examining it, but according to the informant, they had already discovered blood on the seat and bloody evidence of a struggle. The windshield had been smashed, the seatbelt severed by a glass shard, but the cab had been empty.

There was no corpse.

There was no corpse.

_There was no corpse._

At his side, his hands curled into fists. There was no corpse. Murdock was still alive. And Kingpin had no idea what he would do next.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Some of Frank Miller's writing from Daredevil Vol. 1 #229 has been incorporated into this chapter. I've made a few tweaks.

**Chapter 16**

Wilson Fisk was not a man who panicked easily. He took realistic stock of situations, calculated odds, and did his best to create contingencies for circumstances that defied those odds. He was seldom unnerved by the unexpected.

_There was no corpse._

He had no idea why he was unsettled now. When the web-slinger had invaded his office to grill him on Murdock's disappearance, Fisk had not been understating the matter when he'd referred to Murdock as a mosquito. Daredevil had been an irritant, a passing annoyance that he had opted to torment for his own amusement, before utterly crushing the man.

But if one swatted at a mosquito and the insect managed to escape, then there was no need to pursue it further. So long as it had removed itself from his sphere, it was of no consequence.

_There was no corpse._

Sitting at the weight machine, Kingpin replayed their last—what he had believed to be their _final_—encounter once more. He had taken Murdock's measure, found him wanting, given him a moment to realize just how outclassed he was... and put the man out of his misery. But Murdock's last words had been words of defiance directed not at him, but at fate. His final words had been a... a... pep talk.

They had not been the words of a man who would quietly lie down to die. Nor had they been the words of one who would, having escaped a tiger with his life, count himself fortunate among men and avoid the jungle thereafter.

_There was no corpse._

Murdock was alive. It shouldn't matter. He was now bereft of money, power, influence, security... Fisk might not have _literally _taken his life, but he had certainly done so metaphorically. Murdock knew, had to know now, that he had no hope of reclaiming any of what had been taken from him unless the Kingpin allowed it. He was no threat. At least, he shouldn't be. Fisk didn't know why he was worried. What could the man do to him now? Again, he tried to shrug off his concern. He told himself that Murdock was of no consequence, only ever a minor concern and now, even less so. Unfortunately, he grimaced as he gripped the lateral pull-down bar and slowly lowered it, in his heart, he knew better. Murdock was far more than some annoying insect. He always had been. And now, Kingpin felt his apprehension increase ever so slightly, as he realized that he might have just taught Murdock that a man without hope...

...Was a man without _fear_.

* * *

"Will you just call him already?" Foggy demanded.

Matt stirred his peppermint tea and turned his head in the direction of his friend's voice. "Who?"

"Or her," Foggy continued. "Whoever it is you keep half-reaching for the phone to call and then changing your mind."

Matt said nothing for several long moments. He wondered idly whether Foggy could hear the scrape of his spoon on the bottom of the ceramic mug and the slosh of the hot liquid. He inhaled the strong fragrance of the tea. The menthol burned his nasal cavity, but in a good way. Absently, he moved his hand toward the phone again. Then he smiled self-consciously, pulled back his arm, and sighed. "I'm debating whether to give Ben another try," he admitted.

"Ah. And the reason for the debate is...?"

Matt massaged his forehead with three of his fingers. "When I called him before, he wasn't just trying to brush me off because he couldn't talk. He was terrified."

Foggy sat down across from him at the table, pulling the chair closer with a scrape that was almost a screech to Matt's hearing. "Sorry," he said, when Matt winced. "Maybe he was still spooked over what they did to Manolis," he suggested. "Not to mention what they did to his fingers." He paused. "Of course, he might have calmed down since yesterday."

Matt released his spoon and heard it clink against the rim of his mug. "The attack happened on Christmas Day. It was already over a week later when I called him yesterday. I doubt that in the last day or so, he's calmed down enough." He pushed his chair away from the table.

"Where are you going?"

Matt didn't answer, but Foggy heard the bedroom door open and close. A moment later, the same sounds repeated and Matt returned. He had one arm through the sleeve of his jacket and he was struggling with the other. "Karen's asleep," he said softly. "I'm going to the hospital. If Ben won't talk to me, maybe Manolis will."

* * *

He'd let today's mild temperatures fool him into forgetting how cold it could get when the sun went down. The wind whistled past him, sparing a gust to blast through his half-zipped jacket. He shivered and nearly cried out when the movement sent a spasm of pain through his half-healed ribs. He pulled off a glove and fumbled with the zipper-pull, closing it up past his neck.

He felt a bit guilty leaving Karen, although he knew she wasn't alone. Foggy was there. And now that he'd been out of the apartment, Matt found that, instead of finding it easier to cope, he was more restless. He'd been spending too much time cooped up, laying low, recuperating both physically and mentally. He needed to start doing things. The job was a start. Being there for Karen was a start. It wasn't enough. He'd known Manolis was hurting all those weeks ago. Maybe if he'd spent a little more time delving into the reasons, Matt could have found a way to get through to him, help him find a way to help his son without dancing to Kingpin's tune. Now, Manolis was in a hospital room. Ben was apparently too frightened to talk to him.

Another time, Matt might have let those matters lie, preferring the sorts of battles that could be won with fists and billy clubs. He wasn't ready for those, yet. But he was ready to start rebuilding some of the bridges that had been burned recently. Manolis tonight. Ben tomorrow. And after that? Maybe it would be time to start back at Fogwell's.

* * *

Almost as soon as he stepped through the main entrance to Bellevue Hospital, Matt knew he'd made a mistake. The subway had been bad enough, but at least he'd been fortunate to find himself in a car that hadn't been too crowded. The hospital was worse. The air was lousy with adrenaline; too many people here were scared, stressed, or both. Medical staff were hurrying to treat emergencies. Patients were frightened to find themselves here and wondering what was wrong. Family members were frightened for the patients. Matt would have found it hard to deal, had adrenaline been the only major smell in the area, but it wasn't. The human body was capable of emitting several substances that smelled far worse than human perspiration. Fumes from cleaners and disinfectants made his throat burn. Medications had their own distinctive odors—none of which were pleasant. And, no matter where you went, there were always a few people who seemed to bathe in heavy perfume. Add in the screech and clatter of older medical carts and gurneys, shouts for assistance, the hums and rattles of various pieces of equipment, and Matt was almost ready to walk out as quickly as dignity would permit, take the subway back to Foggy's, and call it a night.

He had to be up early tomorrow anyway, if he was starting the new job. Karen needed him. Foggy would probably be pacing the living room until he got back—if he didn't take it into his head to chase after him again. Matt's lips twitched. He'd always thought Foggy was... smarter... than that. He refused to consider how his actions reflected on his own intellect.

Instead, he ran his fingers over the directory, thankful that the department names and floors were engraved on metal plates—easy to read with his fingers. He wasn't sure where Manolis would be, but ICU seemed like a good place to start.

* * *

Emerging from the elevator, he walked down the hospital corridor, hoping it looked like he knew where he was going. At this hour, some of the departments would be closed for the evening, but perhaps... He smiled. There was an open area with chairs and end-tables, clearly a waiting area of some kind, or maybe a lounge. There was nobody else there. Matt walked to the far wall, as far from the bustling hallway as he could get, and took a seat. It was quieter here, easier to think. He tried a basic meditation technique, drawing his focus inward, closing himself off as much as he could and then, slowly, expanding his awareness, trying to take in as much as he could, probing... probing...

"Doctor, Mr. Tersigni's fever is up again..."

"We have been waiting for twenty minutes for a hot blanket! Where is everyone?"

"Nurse..."

"Help me..."

"Okay, Mrs. McIntyre, we're just going to take you down for some tests..."

A heavy door creaked open, startling him. From the echoes, he had to have picked a spot right by a stairwell to try this exercise. This wasn't such a great spot for concentration after all, not if the door was going to keep opening. He was about to move off in search of a better place when he heard...

"Madge, are those Mr. Manolis's night meds? I'll take them."

Matt sat bolt upright. The voice had been coming from one floor above. He got to his feet and fairly ran past the surprised individual, who was still holding the door open.

One floor up, he slowed to a walk and tried to listen for the voice he'd just heard. Instead he heard a more welcome one, weak and labored, but still familiar.

"...Manolis, Mr. Urich. I been able to talk for a couple of days, now... but you haven't called."

Matt smiled. He'd pop in after the nurse was done. It was probably after visiting hours anyway. It was best to avoid drawing attention to himself. Just tail the nurse, hang around outside until she left, and then look in on Manolis. He could follow the nurse just fine, as she walked down the long corridor. She had to be carrying a tray; he could hear pills clinking together softly. Now how to explain his presence when he (hopefully!) didn't look anything like he usually did? As he walked, he considered various cover stories. All at once, he froze. Something was wrong. The nurse's heart rate was spiking, even though, from the sound of his voice, Manolis didn't seem to be in any distress. Matt's heart lurched. Something else was wrong. She was wearing heavy shoes; he could tell by the tread. Now his own heart was pounding. That was no nurse...

The woman nearly slammed the tray down on a nearby gurney and quietly opened Manolis's door. Manolis was still talking.

"Oh," his voice was dejected. "I get it..." Then, with a sick note of horror, "_Oh no._"

The hell with being discreet. Matt broke into a run.

* * *

Nick Manolis knew that he was about to die. He'd been lucky thus far: wounded in the line of duty on a few occasions, but never seriously enough to keep him off his feet for long; slammed around by Daredevil—who had somehow known about the deal he'd made to testify against Murdock (yeah, he'd hated himself for doing it, but it had been worth selling his soul to get Anthony that operation—or it would have been, had his boy lived); beaten to a pulp in a parking lot when he'd realized how low he'd fallen and been about to tell all to the reporter who'd been pestering him. He'd thought that last one would finish him, but he'd pulled through. Part of him wished he hadn't. He'd ruined a good man's life. G-d didn't owe him any favors. But waking up in ICU, Manolis had been consumed by one burning thought: even if it was too little too late, he still needed to come clean on a few things. He'd lost his son. He'd lost his self-respect. But he'd also lost Matt Murdock his career and reputation. It was only fitting that he sacrifice his own, if there was a chance he could set things right.

As soon as he was well enough to be moved from ICU to a regular ward, he'd made up his mind to call the man who'd been most interested in his story: Ben Urich. But Ben had refused to listen, first trying to brush him off, and then going so far as to say that he didn't know who Manolis was talking about.

So, Manolis realized with a sinking feeling, Kingpin had gotten to Urich after all. Before he could fully process what that meant, his door opened and a hulking woman in a nursing uniform stalked in. This was no angel of mercy. This woman, who was single-handedly responsible for landing him in ICU in the first place, this was an angel of death.

Before Manolis could yell for help, the woman had one meaty hand pressed tight around his throat, while her other tore the phone receiver from his hand. She regarded him stonily for a moment. Then she brought the receiver to her own ear and mouth. "My employer would like you to hear this, Mr. Urich," she said, calmly menacing.

Nicholas Manolis thought a quick prayer and prepared to meet his Maker.

* * *

Matt took in the situation the instant he entered the room. Manolis was in bed—not restrained, but not in any position to defend himself against his attacker. Now that he stood only a few feet away from her, Matt was better able to size the woman up. She was easily his own height and half again his width. She probably had at least 75 pounds on him, but like Kingpin, her bulk was comprised of muscle, not fat. Her back was to him and she held the phone in one hand, while her other was clamped around Manolis's throat. She didn't appear to have noticed him.

For an instant, Matt wished he still had his billy club. He banished the thought. No point in thinking about what he didn't have; he had to work with what he did. His first kick rammed into her kidney. She grunted in pain, dropped the phone and tried to swing at him. Matt dodged and countered with a kick to the side of her knee. With a snarl, she released Manolis and lunged for him.

Matt evaded her once more. He'd hoped to take her down quickly, but rage and adrenaline kept her a threat. He grabbed at a nearby chair and slammed it down on her head. He heard the impact of metal on bone and smelled fresh blood. Although she was dazed, she was still coming for him, snarling in incoherent rage. Matt grabbed her by the throat and banged her head into the wall, not stopping until he felt her body go limp. Only then did he release her. She slumped heavily to the floor.

Matt got to his feet with a groan. His chest felt like it was on fire, even if he didn't appear to have taken any serious damage. "Lieutenant?" he whispered.

Manolis coughed. "D-Daredevil?" His whisper was barely more than a rasp.

For a moment, Matt was nonplussed. Then he gave a mental shrug. It was dark in here; the electric lights that had hummed in the hallways and stairwell were noticeably absent in this room. Manolis might recognize his voice, or he might simply assume that Daredevil was the only person likely to be on-hand to take down the would-be assassin, but it was unlikely that the injured police officer could see him well enough to identify him at a later time "Yes. Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

"I'll live," the officer wheezed. "Thanks to you." For a moment, he was silent. Matt heard him fumbling for something. "Phone?" he asked. "I was... talking to... Urich. Wanted to come clean... finally."

"Come clean," Matt repeated. Now that the fight was over, he was more aware of the sounds that surrounded him, including the dial tone. He crossed the room quickly and picked up the dangling receiver. "I'm afraid the line's been disconnected," he said.

Manolis wheezed again. "Not... surprised. He got to him... too."

"Sorry?"

"The guy who got me to accuse Murdock," Manolis rasped. "Spooked Urich. Tried to kill me to keep me quiet."

Matt hesitated. He could hear footsteps approaching at a brisk trot, doubtless in response to the altercation a moment earlier. He had to go. But first... "Quiet. About...?"

Manolis took another breath. "Murdock. You... know what I did. Knew from the start. I... hated to. But my boy..."

"Easy." They'd spot him leaving the room if he used the door now. He moved to the window. "Easy. Rest up. I'll be back when I can." He eased the window open, offered up his thanks that it wasn't screened, and stepped out onto the ledge.

It took him a moment to get his bearings and realize that the room faced East 27th Street. Once he did, he moved along the ledge until he reached the corner of the building. He turned and noted immediately the lull in traffic noises. He was over the parking lot now, and while FDR Drive was busy tonight, it was also far enough away that he doubted he'd be spotted by passing motorists. He listened carefully. There was nobody walking through the parking lot. Here was to hoping that anyone still in their cars wouldn't see him descend.

When his feet finally touched the ground, he breathed a sigh of relief before strolling off to catch the 6-Train. No question about it: if he was going to go back to scaling buildings, he needed a new costume.

* * *

Foggy was still awake when Matt turned his key in the lock. "Karen was up for a bit," he greeted him. "She's still not keeping much food down."

Matt nodded. "I'll check in on her." Briefly, he told Foggy what had happened at the hospital. Foggy sucked in his breath.

"You're saying Manolis is ready to admit he lied under oath about your bribing that witness?" he repeated.

"He was trying to come clean to Ben when that woman tried to kill him. And we know that's how he ended up in ICU in the first place: trying to come clean to Ben."

"Which begs the question," Foggy said slowly, "is he safe where he is?"

Matt was silent for a moment. "It's not ideal," he admitted, "but there's really no other place. He's got a broken leg in traction and I'm not sure what other injuries he sustained that he's still recovering from. The hospital isn't ready to discharge him; I don't think bringing him _here_ is a good idea..." He ignored Foggy's snort of laughter. "I have no other safe house. However," he added, brightening, "Manolis was conscious and alert. And hospital personnel were on their way in when I made my exit. They'll find the would-be murderer out cold on the floor and Manolis able to tell them exactly what happened."

"You said she was choking him?"

Matt nodded. "One-handed."

"There'll be marks on his throat to corroborate, then. So the hospital will have to slap a guard on him, right?"

Matt nodded again. "Hopefully, not another one of Kingpin's people."

"You _would _have to mention that," Foggy groaned. "But, hey, if this pans out, then..."

"I know," Matt replied. "I'm planning to stop by the hospital again after work tomorrow. With a tape recorder."

"In broad daylight?"

Matt shrugged. "It was dark in there tonight. Manolis assumed I was Daredevil. If I show up during the day, I can just tell him that street clothes are less conspicuous than the costume. It's not as if he's going to recognize me as Matt Murdock. Unless..." he frowned. "How good is this disguise? Truthfully?"

"Truthfully?" Foggy hesitated. "To look at you, nobody would make the connection. But someone who knows you well—someone like me, for example—might figure it out, because there are some things that haven't changed: gestures and mannerisms; turns of phrase; voice; voice _inflection_. It could arouse suspicion." He slapped his forehead. "What am I saying? I didn't notice that you were freaking Daredevil for years, and I'm your business partner. Was. Will be again someday, I hope."

"Thanks," Matt said, smiling. "Manolis doesn't know me all that well as Daredevil. And I believe he only faced me as me at the grand jury hearing. The new look should hold up." Abruptly, he rose from the sofa. "I'm going to check on Karen and then," he smothered a yawn, "I'd better turn in. Would you set the alarm for five?"

Foggy groaned. "As long as you turn it off before it wakes _me_. Next time you save the day, could you do it someplace where they reward you with a nice nine-to-five shift?"

Matt thought about the long irregular hours they'd both put in during their years of practice and shrugged. "I wouldn't know what to do with one of those if I had it. Back in a few."

* * *

Fisk looked at the sweating man who stood before him and fiddled with his tie clip. On his lap, behind his desk where his underling couldn't see, his meaty hands clenched into fists. The news he was about to hear would not be good, but this wasn't Ancient Greece. Kill the messenger and next time, he wouldn't be given the information he needed to plan a course of action.

Deliberately, the crime lord got up from his desk, walked to a small cabinet, and withdrew a decanter more than three quarters filled with an amber liquid and two shot glasses. "Brandy?" he rumbled. "It will steady your nerves."

The man nodded. He was trembling now. Fisk wondered whether the sniveling fool suspected that he was about to be poisoned. As though Fisk would keep something so potentially incriminating in his private office, in the event that one of those costumed fools was able to convince the police to obtain a search warrant for the premises. With a sigh, he poured out two glasses. "Please," he said, setting them down on his desk. "Choose one."

As soon as the man picked up one glass, Fisk downed the second. "Drink," he ordered. The man obeyed. Fisk waited a moment. Then he leaned back in his padded office chair, steepled his fingers, and nodded toward him. "Report."

The man gulped. "Lois was arrested at Bellevue less than two hours ago. She's currently in a holding cell at Thirteenth Precinct. As per procedures, she made her one phone call to Lurvy."

Kingpin frowned. "Details," he requested.

"According to Lurvy," the underling said, "Manolis called that reporter-guy, Urich again, trying to come clean. She was in the process of carrying out her orders for that eventuality when someone came into the room and attacked her. Knocked her out. When she woke up, she was in handcuffs and a cop was reading her her rights."

"Ah." Kingpin mulled that over for a moment. "One of ours?"

"We don't know, yet."

"I see." He frowned, thinking. They'd be watching Manolis now. And Urich was no fool. He might be cagey enough to leave what he knew with someone he trusted—to be opened 'in the event of his untimely death'. No, it was best to leave those two alone for now. There was another way to contain the damage. He smiled. He'd never dealt with Manolis directly; he hadn't wanted Manolis to be able to finger him if things went awry. As it turned out, it had been a wise precaution. If Manolis decided to reveal how he had helped to set Murdock up, the only people whom he could possibly incriminate were Manolis himself... And the man who had handled the contacts and the money for his son's hospital treatment, Lew Sherman.

Kingpin's frown deepened. Sherman was a good man. Effective, loyal, capable... but at the end of the day, replaceable. And if he were removed now, before Manolis had the chance to talk to the press, the trail would end there. He'd given the orders to eliminate every link of the chain that carried Murdock's secret to his ears. It might be time to sever the ties that could connect him to Manolis. He nodded to the still-sweating man before him. "Thank you for your assistance. It should prove invaluable." He opened his desk and passed a small yellow envelope to the informant. "That will be all."

The man accepted the envelope and left hurriedly. As soon as he was gone, Kingpin picked up the phone and dialed a number. "I have a job for Stegman," he said to the party on the other line. "Lew Sherman. He is to make it appear as though it were an accident. Yes, the usual recompense. Thank you." He debated sending someone to deal with Lois, but decided to wait. Her nurse's credentials had been earned honestly and it wasn't always easy to gain access to patients in the hospital—particularly when they were under guard. In those circumstances, Lois was invaluable. With the right pressure applied to the right people, the case against her could be dropped before it ever came to trial. As to the party who had laid her low...

He made another call. "Arrange bail for Lois Barton," he ordered. "And find out everything you can from her about her assailant." Details had been sketchy on that front. If her attacker had been a hospital security guard or a random staff member or visitor, no action need be taken. But if it had been Murdock...

Kingpin smiled. If it had been Murdock, it was irrelevant. Let Manolis squawk to him all he liked now. The damage he could do was fairly limited. Let Murdock try to get his license back. Even if he managed it somehow, he'd never live long enough to use it. Kingpin smiled. If it had been Murdock, he would try again... with Manolis, or perhaps, Urich. Sooner or later, Kingpin would have him. His smile widened. This barely qualified as a setback. The ultimate victory _would _be his.

* * *

When Matt returned to Bellevue the next afternoon, he heard the hum of electric lights in Manolis's room. He debated hitting the switch on his way in; it was probably just to the right of the doorway, but thought better of it. He didn't want to alarm the recovering man, particularly when said man would probably hit the call button if he suspected that he was about to be attacked again. He squared his shoulders and walked inside. "Detective?"

Manolis's heart rate jumped slightly. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Just someone who was looking out for you last night," Matt said quietly. "In case you're still being watched, I thought it might be safer if I showed up in street clothes. Probably best not to use my name," he added as an afterthought. "Walls have ears."

The police detective chuckled softly. "You're not wrong. And... Thanks. I guess you guys really do help everyone—including losers who don't deserve it."

Matt drew closer to the bed. There was a chair next to it—not the one he'd used as a weapon the night before. "Pardon?"

"Oh, come on," Manolis said bitterly. "You know. You knew that night, too. When you asked me..." His voice trailed off. "Suppose you tell me what it was you asked me," he said suspiciously. "Just to establish your bona fides, you understand."

Matt nodded. "I asked you why you were trying to ruin Matt Murdock," he said. "It didn't make sense."

Manolis sighed. "It did to me. My son was sick. He needed an operation with six month waiting list and a price tag more than three times my life savings. Out of the blue, I get this phone call from someone telling me that they can get him scheduled for two months from then, all expenses paid. So long as I did them one little favor." He sighed again. "I'm not going to pretend I thought for one second that I was doing the right thing. But it was my son. Murdock might be a great guy..." a concerned note crept into his voice. "How is he?"

"Safe," Matt said. "Lying low for now."

"That's good," the detective rumbled. "I figured ruining his rep was worth my son's life. I don't expect you to believe me, but I'd always planned to come clean about it after the surgery." His wheeze was almost a laugh. "Would've ended my career, but at least, I'd've had my son. Life's a bitch. He... he died on the operating table. I figured I had all the more reason to talk to the press at that point. I..." he sighed. "I might have held off spilling my guts for a bit; let Tony recover before his old man's name got dragged through the mud. Guess there always would have been something," he admitted. "But when he didn't make it, that reporter from the _Bugle_ was there in the waiting room. Urich. I know he's done some articles on you, so I guess you must..."

Matt put a hand on his shoulder. "I know who he is." He took a deep breath.

"Detective Manolis, I'm trying to get to the bottom of this. It's bigger than you know. And I need to make sure that I don't forget anything you might tell me now. Also, if Murdock's name is to be cleared," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tape recorder, "I'd like to get the full story on record." He registered Manolis's head as it jerked up and down once. He smiled. Then he pressed down on the 'play' and 'record' buttons. "Do you have any objections to our conversation being recorded?" he asked.

"No."

"Will you state your name please?"

"Detective Nicholas Manolis."

"Thank you. Please, start at the beginning."

Manolis took a deep breath. "On the evening of October 19th, I received a telephone call from a man who identified himself as Lew Sherman..."

* * *

Foggy and Karen were in the living room when Matt got back. The TV was on and Matt winced when the laugh track played at nearly twice the volume of the conversation.

"How'd it go?" Foggy asked, as Matt bent down to kiss Karen's cheek.

Matt smiled. "Work was fine," he said blandly. "As for my talk with Manolis..." He took the cassette tape out of his pocket and flipped it into Foggy's lap.

"Is this what I think it is?" Foggy breathed.

"A recording of Nick Manolis admitting to committing perjury at the grand jury hearing, obtained with his full cooperation, as stated on the tape." His smile grew bigger. "I'm still not sure how easy it's going to be to get the verdict overturned or how long it might take..."

"But this is a first step," Foggy finished. "Not quite as good as a sworn declaration, but way better than anything we had at the first go-round."

"I thought about that," Matt admitted. "But I wasn't sure I wanted him thinking too much about Daredevil knowing how to draw up a legal document on the spur of the moment. He's a smart man who's laid up in a hospital bed twenty-four-seven. That gives him a lot of time to think. And I don't want him coming to certain conclusions about where Daredevil might have acquired his legal expertise."

Foggy nodded. "I'm your lawyer, anyway," he pointed out. "I'll give Manolis a call once he's been released from Bellevue and set up a time to take care of the deposition."

"While working for Kingpin?" Matt snapped. "Wait," he added less harshly. "Are you going to be? You called today, right?"

"Yes, yes, and yes," Foggy said. "I start next week. And so what? Seriously. Kingpin already knows I represented you. It's probably why he hired me, remember? So if I'm contacting previous witnesses pursuant to my appealing the ruling, that's not going to come as a shock."

"Foggy..."

Foggy wasn't backing down. "The only thing he can't find out is that you're still living here in disguise, under an assumed name. Everything else? In order for it to be conflict of interest, I need to know that Fisk was behind the charges filed against you and for some strange reason, I don't see him sharing that bit of intelligence with me. Do you?"

Matt hesitated. Manolis hadn't mentioned Kingpin at any point during the recording. It wasn't surprising: Fisk was smart enough to hide his influence when the situation warranted. And, while he'd almost certainly tried to have Manolis killed to keep him quiet, the attempt had failed and Matt doubted that the crime lord would try again. He had no compunctions about murder, but he did so only when it was the most expedient option. In this case, Fisk was far more likely to distance himself from the proceedings and allow someone expendable to suffer the fallout.

"Be very careful," he relented finally. "Kingpin doesn't take kindly to being held over a barrel. If he can find a way to avoid it, he will—and he might do it in a way you never saw coming."

Foggy sighed. "You've finally convinced me," he said heavily. Matt sighed too. In relief. But then, Foggy continued brightly, "you really _are_ blind after all. Otherwise you'd have noticed by now: I've _always_ been the careful one in our business. Recklessness is _your _bailiwick. Trust me. I've got a pretty good idea how far I can push things. Don't worry."

Matt shook his head, but there was a rueful smile on his face. "When I tell _you_ not to worry," he murmured, "does it ever work?"

"No. But I've learned to live with it and so can you."

Matt might have protested further, but Karen murmured a protest and slid closer to him and whatever he was about to say died on his lips.

* * *

By the end of the first week, Matt had almost forgotten that, until recently, he'd been working in a very different field. He was having the time of his life. The pace was frantic during the breakfast and lunch rushes, but he was used to performing under pressure and there was a three-hour lull when he could catch his breath. He was getting along well with the other staff.

Otto hadn't pressed him about his paperwork and Matt suspected that he wasn't the first employee that Otto had hired who couldn't produce a valid SSN. It wouldn't surprise him to find out that he wasn't the only such employee currently working at the restaurant. When, on Friday afternoon, Otto handed him an envelope of cash—his first week's wages—Matt tried to broach the subject. Otto shut him down.

"Look, Mac. I don't care what your story is or why you don't have the documents. I care that you're here on time, you work your hours, and the customers are happy. You show me your Social Security Card, I start cutting you checks. Otherwise, I figure I'll ask you no questions, you'll tell me no lies. Capice?"

The Italian word sounded comical in Otto Schnapp's German accent—still pronounced, despite the decades he'd lived in the United States—so perhaps, Matt's smile was a bit broader than it might have been when he nodded and replied, "Capice."

He stopped at the church on his way home to let Sister Maggie know that Karen would be by on Monday. The worst of her withdrawal symptoms seemed to be over and she'd even mentioned that she was looking forward to spending the day outside the apartment. He was smiling as he resumed his trek homeward. Things were definitely looking up.

* * *

"Well?" Matt asked on Monday afternoon. "How was it?"

Karen wormed her way under his arm and wrapped her own arm around his waist. "Hard," she admitted, "but you and Foggy were right. I need this." She sighed. "It's been a long day."

"They found stuff for you to do?"

Karen nodded. "Well... I helped with the homeless breakfast in the morning, but after the group, I just felt so drained. One of the sisters showed me the library and I think I dozed off for a couple of hours."

Matt smiled. "You do sound more relaxed than you did this morning. And I bet you were too nervous to sleep much last night." It was a safe bet. He'd heard her tossing and turning until he'd finally succumbed to slumber. "Not surprised you needed to catch up."

Some of her tension seemed to drain away and she gave a slight giggle as they continued on.

Behind the wheel of a parked Jeep Renegade, unfriendly eyes watched them go. Paulo started the engine with a cruel smile. It had been over a week, but he'd finally found Karen Page. Clearly, she'd wasted no time hooking up with some other patsy. No matter. Once he found out where she was living, it would be just a matter of time before she went out on the street without that guy around to protect her. It wouldn't be long before she'd find out that nobody—especially no cheap bit of skirt—ran out on Paulo. He pressed his lips together in a thin line. He was going to enjoy making that lesson stick.


	17. Chapter 17

References: Daredevil Vol. 1 #231. Some dialogue in this chapter was originally written by Frank Miller.

**Chapter 17**

"It's a good thing that the new place is a two-bedroom," Foggy remarked, nearly a fortnight later. "It's getting a little crowded in here." He held up a warning hand. "And no, that is not a subtle hint that I want either of you to move out."

Matt smiled. "But it _is_ cramped."

"It's still more than four times the square footage we had in the Columbia dorms," Foggy retorted. "It just feels like more than four times the furniture, too," he added in an undertone.

"I know," Matt nodded. At first, it hadn't been hard for him to be a 'good' guest. Those first few days, he'd been wiped out, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Just pulling himself together enough to eat or letting Foggy drag him clothes shopping had been about all he could handle that first day. After that, he'd put himself through the motions: going to the library to research Fisk, even though the information that might have helped him wouldn't have been publicly available; going to the gym to get back into shape, even though he'd fast grown restless and decided to confront Fisk far too soon.

Being able to be there for Karen and finding the new job had both been godsends for him, but he had to admit that in such close quarters, it was harder to tune out the sounds and smells that surrounded him. Foggy still snored. Karen still moaned in her sleep, though less than she had those first nights. This was an older building and there had been several occasions when he'd been jolted awake by the flush of a toilet or the scrape of a chair from the floor above or the unit next door. He'd gone with Foggy to the new apartment a couple of times. It was quieter and the hallways were missing the musty smell he'd almost stopped noticing in Foggy's current building. Almost, but not quite.

"At some point soon," Matt said, "I think Karen and I will both need to move on. Hopefully, before you have to hint about it for real," he added, smiling when he heard Foggy chuckle. "For now, though," he reached into his pocket for the envelope Otto had given him at the end of his shift, opened it, and removed several bills. He frowned a bit as he ran his fingertips over them, concentrating to determine the denominations. "Consider it my contribution to expenses," he said, "or a partial reimbursement for that shopping trip that first day."

"You don't have to…" Foggy started to protest.

"Neither did you." He peeled off two bills and pocketed them. Then he held out the rest to Foggy. "Please."

Foggy accepted them with a sigh. "Seriously, if something comes up, if you need…"

"What I need most right now," Matt said, resting a hand on Foggy's shoulder, "is to get back on my own two feet. And part of that involves paying my way. At least, as much as possible. I realize that, at my current salary, I can't contribute my fair share, but I'd like to put in something. Please," he asked again.

Foggy covered Matt's hand with his own. "Sure thing, buddy," he said with a smile in his voice. "Sure thing."

* * *

Leaving the church with Karen on the following Monday, Matt wondered where the guy would be this time. Two weeks ago, he'd been sitting on a bench across the street when they'd exited. He'd reeked of cigarettes, menthol, and too many days without a shower, blended with the aniseed-heavy fragrance of Brut 33 deodorant. He'd been reading a newspaper, and Matt had thought nothing of it.

The bench had been empty the next day, but Matt had picked up the same bouquet of fragrances emanating from a bus shelter, one block later. He hadn't encountered the guy again for two days, but when he did, it had been another block closer to Foggy's.

He'd told Foggy to hold off on going to see Manolis. The recorded confession, while admissible in court, wouldn't carry the day unless Manolis was either willing to testify or sign a sworn statement corroborating what he'd told Matt. If Matt was being followed, if Kingpin's goons had somehow penetrated his disguise, then allowing Foggy to involve himself was out of the question. It was one thing if Matt's whereabouts were unknown and Foggy was still trying to clear his best friend's name, should he resurface. But if Kingpin knew that Matt was still staying in Foggy's apartment, then Foggy couldn't be seen following any leads that might actually help the appeal. And he definitely couldn't be playing Encyclopedia Brown over at Kelco. Any misstep could be fatal and both men knew it.

Matt frowned. Something wasn't adding up. Kingpin already knew where Foggy lived. Having Matt tailed in this manner—observing the route he took to get home, never actually following, but rather observing him each day, getting progressively closer to his destination… that rather heavily implied that whoever was doing it didn't actually know where Matt was headed. Was there another player involved? Was someone after him because they thought that he might have overheard something he shouldn't have at some point during his shift? Or did someone think he might have seen something he shouldn't have?

"Is everything all right?" Karen asked. "You look like you're a million miles away… and wherever it is you're visiting, it's not a nice place."

Matt smiled. "I'm fine, just thinking."

Karen gave an exasperated sigh. "You know, you're much better at lying to me when you're wearing shades," she said, moving a bit closer to him. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

He was going to need to remember that: people who couldn't hear heartbeats and smell sweat pheromones also had tricks for noticing when someone was being less than truthful. Since he didn't want to burden her, or worse, scare her, he settled on a half-truth. "I guess I'm just feeling a little antsy. This may be the longest I've gone without my… other suit, since I got it. In fact," his smile broadened. Let his tail wait and wonder today. "How about we head over to a fabric store and see how much leather is selling for today?"

Karen relaxed. "And I guess you want me along to help you with the color."

"Well, it would help to ensure that I don't walk out of there with some kind of Scots tartan. Do they make plaid leather?"

Karen giggled. "I don't know and I don't think I want to. What are you going to do for a billy-club?"

Matt chuckled. _Crisis averted. _Aloud, he said, "First things first, darling. First things first."

* * *

Paulo peered around the edge of his newspaper. Karen Page and her new meal ticket should have passed this way by now. To his right, he had a clear view of the way that they should have come. He'd been watching to see if they would continue straight past him or turn at the intersection. They should been there ten minutes ago.

His hand clutched at the edge of the paper, crumpling it. He had not found Karen Page just to lose her again. There was no way that some little piece of skirt was going to play _him_ for a fool!

What the hell was she doing at that church anyway? She might be pretty enough to be an angel, but he knew better—and he had the videocassettes of her most recent movies to prove it. Not to mention the ways she'd had of showing her gratitude to him for driving her to New York. He'd thought he meant something to her, but as soon as she got what she wanted from him, she'd been fixing to leave him behind. He'd just been one more rung on the ladder to her, one more person that she could step on. Well, he wasn't going to take that from some skank! She needed to learn her lesson and learn it good.

And Paulo was just the guy to find her and teach her.

Karen Page wouldn't act so high-and-mighty when he was through with her. And he was going to keep looking until he found her again.

* * *

"I think this is the last load for now," Foggy said. The apartment didn't look much emptier; they still needed most of the furniture. However, it was a sight less cluttered.

Spider-Man turned a web-bag of bankers' boxes nearly as tall as he was horizontal, and hoisted it through the open window. As he watched them sway from side to side, Foggy was glad that Spidey had wrapped each box in webbing separately, before creating the bag, so as to keep the contents of the boxes from spilling out. Once the bag was out of the window and secured to the side of the building, Spidey stepped back into the apartment and webbed up another stack. "Is there anything else you need done?" Spidey asked. "Pick up your dry-cleaning, wax your car, slip your business card to the next crook I leave for the police?"

Foggy laughed. "Maybe if we'd met a few months ago," he said. "I'm doing corporate litigation now."

"Slip your business card to the next white collar CEO crook I leave for the police?"

"In-house," Foggy clarified. "Not taking clients; just representing the company I work for in their lawsuits." He frowned. "Actually… maybe there is something you could do."

Spidey paused and looked up from the boxes. "I'm listening."

Quickly, Foggy brought the masked man up to date, both on his new job and on Matt's encounters with Manolis. "The thing is," he continued, "having Manolis on tape consenting to being recorded makes his statement admissible in court. If he can't be present—and considering that the guy was already beaten so badly he was ICU for a couple of weeks, _and_ someone tried to kill him when he wanted to talk to the press, _plus_ he's currently still in the hospital, in traction… Look, Matt's my best friend. I'd be willing to risk _my_ life to testify for him in court, but I don't think I could ask Manolis to do the same."

"Well, can you win the appeal if he doesn't testify in person?"

Foggy sighed. "It'll be a lot harder. Kingpin's… well, I guess you don't need me to tell you what he's like, when you probably know first-hand and I'm just going by hearsay. Which," he shook his head sadly, "is the problem with Manolis not showing up in person; without his being present and available to be cross-examined, what I've got on tape is 'I can prove Matt's innocent because Manolis told me he lied.' That's hearsay. Generally not admissible."

"Generally," Spidey repeated. "But sometimes it can be?"

Foggy nodded. "Don't go by what TV and movies tell you about court procedures. It's rare that you get someone shouting 'Objection!' every five minutes. And—sorry to digress, but this one always makes me want to tear my hair out—circumstantial evidence is _very_ admissible." He took a breath. "To give you an example, suppose police get a notification that burglar alarm went off at an electronics store after hours. Upon arrival, they see that the security gate's been forced open and the shop window smashed. They see someone running down the street and follow. Suspect has cuts on his hand and is carrying a microcassette recorder, still in the sealed packaging, no bag or receipt. Suspect says that he picked up the cassette recorder from a friend who'd bought it earlier and that he'd been walking down the street, not really paying attention to anything and absent-mindedly been brushing his hand along the storefronts, and when he passed what had been the window, he cut himself on the shards still in the window frame. Then he heard the sirens, panicked and, because he's already got a record and is out on probation, he ran." He smiled. "That's circumstantial. No witnesses saw him break the window. Nobody saw him grab the recorder. But he's fleeing a crime scene where a window was broken, and he's got a bloody hand and a new microcassette recorder. No police officer worth his badge is going to say, 'We're pretty sure we know what happened, but we can't arrest him, because the case is circumstantial and it's going to get tossed out of court.'"

"With you so far," Spidey nodded.

"With hearsay," Foggy continued, "and I'm simplifying, if I were to testify in court that you came to my window and told me that… that Chicago got hit by a-a blizzard—"

"That's me," Spidey nodded. "Your friendly neighborhood meteorologist."

Foggy smiled. "If I'm trying to prove that Chicago had snow, then my statement is hearsay."

"Because you didn't see it."

"Right. But if I'm using it to prove that my window was open, because I'm actually a witness in a murder trial and _because_ my window was open, I heard the victim scream and immediately looked out to the fire escape next door, where I saw the defendant take the victim by the throat—"

"—_Which_ I didn't notice because I was preoccupied with telling you about the weather in Chicago—"

"—_Then_ my statement is admissible, because although your report on the blizzard is hearsay, it is also completely irrelevant to the murder trial. The relevant part is that my window was open, so that I could talk to you and therefore, I heard the scream from my apartment and witnessed the murder." Unfortunately," Foggy's face fell, "as I'm sure you noticed, Manolis's statement doesn't fall into that category."

Spidey made a disgusted gesture. "Just when you got me excited," he muttered and resumed sealing the boxes.

"Yeah, sorry," Foggy apologized. "I sort of get carried away sometimes."

"So, the only way Manolis's statement can help is if he testifies in court? What if he disappeared? Or if Kingpin got to him and he couldn't be there?"

"That could happen," Foggy nodded. "And that's where you could come in. It's still bringing the chances down from 'none' to 'slim,' but if you could get Manolis to sign a transcript of his confession before an official—like a notary public, it… well, it still wouldn't be ideal. Or typical. Usually, sworn affidavits are helpful in two instances. One: to use as a… a baseline. So if Manolis states something in the affidavit which he subsequently contradicts on the stand, it could be used against him. And if he sticks to the original version, that works for him, of course."

"That's assuming he testifies."

"Yeah, well, the appeals process can take a while. Hopefully, he'll be out of the hospital and in a safe-house somewhere by then. _But_, if he's," Foggy's face twisted, "dead or otherwise incapacitated, or he's off the grid, the court might make an exception and allow the affidavit. Personally, I've seen it happen three times, and in each case, there was some other corroborating evidence."

"Which you don't have now."

Foggy smiled. "Which we don't have, _yet_. But until a couple of weeks ago, we didn't have the recording either. So. Do you know of a notary public who would be willing to make a house call? Err… hospital call?" When Spider-Man didn't reply, Foggy continued, "I'm trying to cover all my bases. Because this _isn't_ going to be an easy case to win. I don't think I can afford to let things lie now, if later, Manolis up and vanishes… or worse. We get the affidavit signed, witnessed, and notarized, and it'll be there, should new corroborating evidence come to light. Will it help? I don't know. But I do know that if there's the slightest chance it could, I want it in Matt's file, just in case."

Spider-Man hesitated for one moment. Then he clapped Foggy on the shoulder. "I don't know of anyone off-hand, but I'll see who I can find. Meanwhile," he enclosed the newly-sealed boxes in another web-bag, "I'd better get the rest of these packed up before the webbing on the first lot dissolves."

"Um… you might need extra," Foggy ventured. "For reinforcement. I'm pretty sure half of those boxes are filled with law books."

"Law books?" Spidey whistled. "Good thing I've got the proportional strength of a spider."

* * *

Wilson Fisk sat in his office reviewing reports. Lois was currently out on bail, as he had ordered. That was good. He meant to assign her to various hospitals, in hope that one of them might have treated Murdock. If they had, then he might have registered with an address or contact telephone number that could be traced. His people had been keeping an eye on Murdock's family physician of record; Murdock hadn't been there. However, it was possible that he'd opted for a different GP. The paperwork might provide a name.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door; his secretary was bringing him the morning paper. He frowned when he read Urich's piece, purporting to expose him as the Kingpin of Crime. Fisk frowned, thinking. Jameson wasn't one of his people, unfortunately. If he had been, the story would never have seen the light of day. He sighed. Urich had stopped short of linking him to the attack in Bellevue's parking lot on Christmas night. He'd written about the beating though, and he'd accurately described Lois. That was trouble; the hospitals might be looking out for her. Fisk pursed his lips. So much for his plan to use Lois to uncover Murdock's whereabouts. New York was no longer safe for her. He placed a call to one of his underlings, ordering him to make certain arrangements. He hung up satisfied. By this time tomorrow, Lois would be on a flight to Arizona, where she would rest until the Manolis affair blew over. He might even have a job or two for her down there.

Some show of outrage against Urich and the _Bugle _was probably called for. He could threaten legal action. It might be amusing to have Nelson handle it. Jameson would likely settle out of court; he was a stubborn man, but he could be made to see reason when the wall-crawler wasn't involved. Fisk put the paper aside for now and went back to his reports.

While his outward demeanor was serene, inwardly his thoughts were in turmoil. Murdock was off the grid; he had no idea where to find him, but he knew that his adversary was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

He wasn't overly concerned. He knew that he could deal with anything Murdock might throw at him now. He was all but positive. However, the prudent man left nothing to chance. He wanted Murdock under surveillance, his movements tracked, his behaviors noted. Learn his routines, learn his patterns, and one could predict his likeliest direction of attack and plan accordingly.

At the moment, Murdock was a ghost.

Fisk disliked ghosts.

His telephone rang and he forced himself to wait until halfway through the third ring, as always. "Yes?"

"We've located that loose end we were unable to tie up in Mexico," the voice on the other end spoke briskly.

Fisk smiled. "Excellent. Have you rectified the situation?"

"Negative, sir. There's a complication. The loose end is currently in New York and, while we've been tracking her movements, she's never outdoors alone. She's staying with one Franklin Nelson at..." At the sound of the name, Fisk's hand clenched in an involuntary fist. "In the last week, she has not ventured outside of Nelson's apartment alone. She's always either with him or with another man who seems to be living there. I thought it best to advise you before taking further action."

"Most wise." Fisk opened his desk drawer and quickly consulted a dossier. He knew about Nelson's new roommate, of course. He'd paid the matter little mind when it had been brought to his attention, secure in the belief that Murdock was entombed at the bottom of the Hudson. If Nelson wanted a companion to shoulder part of the rent, it was of no importance. But if Murdock was still alive, then… "Continue your surveillance," he said. "For the moment, you are to observe the apartment. Notify me should Page, Nelson, or…" he double-checked the dossier, "Jackson leave the premises. Do not follow without clearance from me. Report to me at this time tomorrow." He replaced the receiver without waiting for an acknowledgment.

He smiled. Murdock's best friend and former girlfriend were together. Perhaps Murdock was with them—this 'Mac Jackson' character, perhaps not. It didn't really matter. He picked up the telephone and dialed another number. "Inform Mr. Potter," he rumbled, "that I have a commission for him."

* * *

"Honestly," Karen said, fighting not to laugh, "how did you make the first one?"

Matt ran his finger disbelievingly over the bent darning needle and sighed. "I was using my father's boxing robe as the fabric. Silk was a lot easier to stitch."

"Silk?" Karen was finding it harder not to laugh. "B-but silk is dry-clean only. And it wrinkles. And it shows perspiration stains."

"Yes," Matt replied, somewhat testily. "I know that now." He reached for another needle. Karen reached for his hand and squeezed it.

"Nuh-uh," she said. "You're just going to break that one, too. Wouldn't it be easier to do it by machine?"

Matt brought his free hand to his forehead and pushed back his hair. It was getting longer; he'd need to touch up the dye job tonight. "It would be, but I can't afford one right now." He sighed. "I need to get out there. Did you see Ben's exposé on the Kingpin in today's _Bugle_? Fisk generally lets stuff like that pass, but since he thinks I'm out of the way, he might decide otherwise this time." His jaw hardened. "And, thanks to my hearing, I don't need a newspaper to know that criminal activity is up. This is a relatively safe part of the city and there were at least half a dozen robberies within five blocks of here last night. And those were just the sloppy ones. There were probably a couple more perpetrated by people who knew how to deactivate the burglar alarms."

Karen squeezed his hand again. "But your ribs…"

"They still hurt a bit," Matt admitted. "But nothing like they did those first few days. The leather would give me some protection. It's not as good as body armor, but for some reason, Paron doesn't sell Kevlar by the yard." His eyebrows shot up. "Hang on a minute," he said in a completely different tone of voice.

"What?"

"Just an idea. There's a guy I know who might be able to help out with this. And he owes me a favor." He smiled. "I think I might take a walk tomorrow evening after work." He sighed. Otto had asked him to come in for the supper rush tomorrow; the regular cook was taking his GED the next morning and had begged the day off to study. Matt was going to pick Karen up at the church in the afternoon and bring her back to the apartment, then return to the diner.

"Want some company?"

Matt shook his head. "Not this time," he said, smiling. "But I'll tell you all about it when I get back."

* * *

Wilson Fisk clenched his fist around his black-laquer fountain pen (a Montblanc Noblesse) and fought to keep his temper from flaring, as his underling made his report.

"She just stormed out of my office, after I told her why she was being relocated," he said. The man was sweating and Fisk noticed that his knees were knocking together softly. "Once she knew it was because of Urich's exposition, she offered to, and I quote, 'relocate _him_'. Of course, I told her, as per your directional, that she was to digress from thinking that way, but she refused to conversate further."

He felt the metal beneath the laquer give, as he crushed the pen in his hand. He reached for the _Bugle_ once more and reread Urich's piece. Slowly, he felt himself relax. "Your speed in delivering this information to me is commendable," he said finally. "You're dismissed." He went back to the paper. Only when his underling had left and closed the office door gently behind him did Fisk allow himself a brief smile.

Although Lois's decision to go rogue irritated him and, assuming she returned to his service, some disciplinary action would be warranted, he wasn't at all dismayed that she was gunning for Urich. In a best case scenario, she would remove an irritating thorn from his side and he would find her some place more remote than Bisbee, Arizona to lie low. And, if she were to be caught by police, perhaps he would let her languish a bit longer in her cell this time—the aforementioned disciplinary action—before arranging for her release. If anyone dared to question whether he had sent Lois to dispatch the reporter, he could truthfully state that he had not. And if Lois were to talk… he had people in every police precinct that would be able to silence her accusations before they got too far out of hand.

He smiled. If he played his cards carefully, the situation would quickly resolve itself, and much to his benefit.

* * *

Ben came into the diner just as the supper rush was winding down. ('Rush' was somewhat debatable. It had been slow tonight.) The cigarette odor on his clothes wasn't much of a tipoff; it already permeated the dining area. But there was no mistaking Ben's world-weary, thin, slightly-rasping voice. He was making small talk with someone unfamiliar—not one of the wait staff. If On the plus side, people who dined with others generally stayed longer, and Matt wasn't quite finished in the kitchen. On the minus side, approaching Ben if he wasn't eating alone might not be the most prudent of moves. Of course, Matt could always follow at a distance until Ben's companion left.

As soon as his kitchen duties were completed, he took himself to the empty booth behind Ben's, trusting that his disguise would hold up. Ben and his companion were talking about the hamburgers. Ben was explaining to his companion that this had always been a good place to get some writing done, once a person got used to the smell, in part because the food was generally lousy. He even sounded a bit put out that the food was good this time. Matt fought not to laugh when he heard that! The two men talked a bit more and then Ben got up to call his wife. It seemed that Ben's companion—who, going by the way he comported himself and the smell of gun oil was probably a bodyguard, maybe a cop—was going home with him.

Unseen by either of the two men, Matt smiled his approval. After the story in today's _Bugle_, Ben needed some protection.

When Ben and his companion got up to leave, Matt followed them to the subway at a discreet distance.

* * *

Kingpin rarely involved himself directly in work of this nature. He much preferred to pull the strings from a distance. But he wanted to have a look at the man who was going to carry out his plan.

Looking at him through the thick glass pane of the cell door, Kingpin saw a man of Murdock's height and build. His expression was brutish, his eyes vacant. Of course, garbed in the attire that Kingpin meant for him to wear, nobody would be looking at his eyes.

"This one has a thing for families," his advisor told him. "I'm afraid I can't give you an exact body count; his lawyer got the record sealed… but it's respectable. Goes for knives, mostly, but I'm sure he could be talked into using a club. I should warn you, he's unpredictable."

He was also expendable. Still, it occurred to the Kingpin that it might be better to seek out a more stable candidate for the task at hand. The man he observed through the window was scarcely more than an animal. He considered moving on to the next name, then rejected the notion. He could go through another name, another dozen names, another hundred. None would be perfect. He didn't need perfect. He just needed someone who could flush Murdock out… or set Murdock up. At this point, he didn't care which.

"He will do," he told the advisor. "Arrange for his release."

From the privacy of his limousine, he made one telephone call to another of his lieutenants. "Have you secured Mr. Potter's cooperation? Make it clear to him that his store, and his life depend on his compliance. Should that not suffice… I believe that he's grown rather fond of his therapist. Elizabeth Beatty is her name, I think? If he doesn't value his own life, he might set greater store by hers."

* * *

If Matt hadn't been so intent on being discreet, he would have been close enough to realize that something was very wrong in time to warn Ben. As it was, when Ben was unlocking the door of his sixth-floor walk-up, Matt was still four floors below. It wasn't until Ben got the door open that Matt realized the danger and quickened his pace. There was someone else in the apartment; a woman with a heavy tread and a gravelly voice—deep for a woman—that he recognized from the hospital. It was the nurse who had nearly killed Manolis.

As he raced up the last flight of stairs, he heard the air whoosh out of Ben's lungs as a heavy fist slammed into them. Then a scuffle and a crash; he guessed that the bodyguard was trying to fight, but it didn't sound like he was doing a good job of it. More horrifying, though, was the choking gurgle coming from somewhere behind the fight.

He burst into the apartment to find the nurse beating the tar out of the bodyguard. Ben was crawling in the direction of the choking sounds, gasping his wife's name. Matt thought quickly. Whoever was in the bathroom was still alive and it didn't sound like anyone else was in the other room with them. Meanwhile, the bodyguard needed help now. Matt charged into the fray, delivering a chisel fist to the nurse's throat. She reeled back with a gasp. For a moment, Matt thought that she was down for the count, but then she plucked the handgun from the fallen bodyguard and surged upward.

Before she could level the gun to aim, Matt kicked it out of her hand. Without pausing, he swung the same leg upward, slamming the back of his thigh into her jaw with a satisfying crunch and knocking her head into the wall. She slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Matt moved to check the other person in the room, the man she'd been beating on. He was breathing and his heart was steady, but he was pretty badly hurt and not moving. He was also carrying a pair of handcuffs. Somehow, Matt didn't think the man would mind loaning them to him for the purpose of restraining the nurse.

He'd just clicked the cuffs on when he heard Ben coming back. As much as Matt did want to talk to him, after what had just happened, this was definitely the wrong time. He exited quickly, just as the telephone began to ring.

Something made him wait in the hallway to hear who was on the other end. His eyebrows shot up. It was the man he'd been planning to see tonight, before Ben had walked into the diner. And he sounded scared.

"It's about Daredevil," Melvin was saying. "It's urgent."

Matt couldn't blame Ben for telling Melvin that he couldn't talk tonight, after what had just happened. At least one person in the apartment right now needed medical attention; possibly more. And given what had transpired here, Ben would certainly be calling the police. No, Matt totally understood why Ben was giving Melvin the brushoff.

But when he heard Melvin saying, "But it has to be tonight. It's a matter of life and…" he took off down the stairs at a run.

* * *

Had Matt still had an intact costume, he would have gone into Melvin Potter's costume shop through the back door in the alley. Instead, he made his way up to the roof to scout the place out. Desperate as Melvin had sounded, Matt wanted to find out a bit more about the situation before he made his entrance; particularly since, once he doused the lights, he'd have only a couple of minutes to talk to Melvin before the ex-con got antsy and flicked them back on again. Melvin was a reformed man, but as much as he tried to steer clear of his old activities, he'd been known to backslide—or be blackmailed into helping old associates—before. The last thing Matt wanted now was for someone to give Kingpin a description of his current appearance. He couldn't trust Melvin not to. He crouched by the skylight and listened to the sounds coming from the shop below.

Melvin was on the telephone. "They said they're going to blow up the shop and kill me, Betsy, unless I make this Daredevil costume. I know they're up to something rotten. They want it tonight. I don't know what to do."

Matt had heard enough. Although under other circumstances, he wouldn't rule out some of his other enemies trying to procure a costume in order to frame Daredevil for something or other, there weren't many out there who could make Melvin sound that scared. He was going to lay odds that Kingpin had finally discovered that he'd survived that watery deathtrap. And if the crime boss was trying to draw him out… Matt's blood ran cold. If Kingpin meant to check his last known whereabouts, then… Foggy. Karen. They were in danger! He had to…

He had to calm down. Running off half-cocked on rage, fear and adrenaline had already nearly gotten him killed. If Foggy hadn't been there… if Spidey hadn't been down by the pier… He'd probably be lying in some dumpster dying, or dead, of pneumonia right now. Kingpin—assuming it _was_ Kingpin—wanted Melvin to make a Daredevil costume. Until the costume was ready, Kingpin's plan wouldn't proceed. There was still time. And, thanks to an overheard phone conversation, Kingpin had just lost the element of surprise.

Matt smiled. Then he stole into the store and, as Melvin hung up with Betsey, flicked off the lights. "Melvin," he said softly, "Go ahead. Make the costume. No one will be hurt."

He didn't need his enhanced senses to hear Melvin's sigh of relief from clear across the room. "Pleasure to hear your voice, Daredevil," he said.

Unseen in the shadows, Matt smiled.

* * *

Karen Page stood by Foggy's window, looking out at the pavement, trying to catch a glimpse of Matt on his way back. It wasn't working out. The window looked out directly onto the street, but she couldn't see very far to her left or right.

"I'm sure he's fine," Foggy said reassuringly. "He and Ben probably have a lot to catch up on."

"I know," Karen sighed. "I just…" she turned bleak eyes toward him. "Every time he's even a few minutes later than he should be, I start to worry. I can't stop thinking about how he might be," she swallowed hard and forced the word out, "d-dead. And if he is, it'll be all my fault."

"Karen…"

"It's true, Foggy!" she cried. "I sold out his secret identity for one lousy fix, just like a junkie. Even if Matt could forgive me, I can't forgive myself." She turned back to the window. "If anything happens to him I… there's a part of me that could throw myself out of the…" She froze. Down there, lounging in the doorway, in a yellow coat was a man she'd hoped never to see again. Her first instinct was to get away from the window, pull the blinds, and not look outside again until Matt came back, but she lingered a moment too long. Paulo looked up. When their eyes met, he leered at her. She recoiled and yanked on the cord, bringing the venetian blind crashing to the sill.

"Karen?" Foggy took two steps toward her. "Are you okay?"

She was trembling. "Paulo… It's Paulo. Down there, just waiting, must've followed me here from the café when you and I met up. Must've been coming here every day. Stalking me."

"The guy that beat you up?" Foggy demanded furiously. "Where?" He opened one arm wide and Karen ran to him, clung to him.

"He said he'd kill me if I ran out on him… and I did. He's crazy. He'll kill us both!"

Still keeping one arm wrapped around her, Foggy reached for the telephone. "Devil he will," he said. "I'm calling the police."

There was a loud bang and then the window exploded, spraying glass shards everywhere. Foggy held her so tightly that Karen could hear his heart pounding as he hurled them both to the ground. From the street outside, they could hear additional gunshots, but no more seemed to be heading their way. "Stay down," he told her. "I'm going to make that call."

He got up cautiously and picked up the phone again, taking care that he was no longer standing in line with the window.

Karen watched miserably. So, it wasn't enough that she'd put Matt in danger. She was dragging Foggy down too. Paulo would be up here in moments and then he'd kill them both. Unless…

Her eye fell on a potted plant on the sideboard. The clay pot was big and looked heavy. It would be enough. It had to be. She stole quietly toward it. Intent on his conversation, Foggy didn't notice what she was up to until she brought the plant crashing down on his head.

"Sorry, Foggy," she whispered, as she rushed out of the apartment. "But the only way to keep Paulo from getting both of us is if I let him have me. And I know you'd never let me go to him. I'm sorry," she repeated, as she tried to find the doorknob through eyes that blurred with tears, "but this was the only way."


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Some dialogue written by Frank Miller and lifted directly from Daredevil Vol. 1, No. 231. Reference also made to events in Daredevil Vol. 1, No. 75.

A/N: Some changes made to the car in the first scene in order to comply with the laws of physics.

A/N: Just want to send a belated shout-out to Christine, author of the Daredevil blog, "The Other Murdock Papers". Her posts have been an invaluable resource, especially when it comes to DD canon not yet available on Comixology or Marvel Unlimited. (Example: DD #75).

**Chapter 18**

Lying on the roof of a moving car, Matt was relieved to find that his ribs barely bothered him now. He had enough to contend with just managing not to fall off of a smooth surface with lousy handholds, cruising at thirty miles per hour. He'd been able to loop his belt around one bar of the roof rack. Now, he clung to it with both hands, well aware that one sharp turn or sudden stop might prove lethal—and trying not too hard to think about it. If he thought about it too much, his hands were going to start sweating and he really couldn't afford that at the moment. Besides, he had other things to worry about. With the landmarks rushing past him, he had no way to get his bearings. The wind roaring in his ears made it hard for him to hear the conversation going on inside the vehicle. Still, he pressed one ear to the car top and persevered.

"…You will be deposited into an alley," a nasal voice droned, "beside an apartment building. You will climb the fire escape and enter said building through the roof entrance, which shall be unlocked. You will descent yourself…" Matt's jaw tensed. Maybe it was hard for him to recognize the speaker with all of the background noise interfering, but he knew who it was. There was only one man on Kingpin's payroll who could butcher the English language quite that painfully—at least, Matt hoped that was the case. It was a blessing that with the wind in his face and the car's windows up, Matt couldn't smell the Aqua Velva the flunky was probably drenched with. If his gag reflex had kicked in, he might have slackened his grip on his belt. As it was…

…As it was, he was managing. Managing not to kick his way in through the windshield, intent on tearing the occupants of the car limb from limb, even when he heard the man give instructions to 'cause anatomic damage to one Franklin Nelson and whosoever else may habitate the apartment.' Only the realization that doing so would likely result in three deaths—one of which would be his own—kept him from stopping things before they had a chance to move further. Instead, when the car was forced to slow down to safely navigate a street which the snow plows hadn't yet cleared Matt leaped off and into a drift about eight inches deep. He sniffed the air and smiled. General Tso chicken and smoked pork from a Hunan restaurant mingling with freshly-baked sourdough rye bread—at this hour of the evening, it had to be from a 24-hour bakery… diesel fumes from a service station… hotdogs, fries, and pretzels from the pushcarts… he knew exactly where he had to be if he was picking up those smells in close proximity. And he knew a shortcut to his destination.

He picked himself up out of the snow drift and made his way east.

* * *

Karen waited by the elevator and jabbed the button repeatedly. What was taking so long? As soon as Foggy came to, he was going to come chasing after her and he wouldn't be out cold for long; she hadn't hit him that hard. What if she had? Maybe, in her carelessness, she'd killed him. Like she could have killed Matt. Tears blurred her eyes as she pressed the button again. It wasn't getting there fast enough. She gave up and ran for the stairs.

Her heart was thudding in her chest as she burst out of the building. Maybe if she talked to Paulo, acted nice and contrite, he'd just slap her around a little. Maybe he'd even have a fix for her—and she really needed one now. She hated herself for thinking that way, but if she had any chance of keeping it together right now, she needed the stuff. Paulo would understand. And he was always carrying. Who was she kidding? Paulo was going to kill her. _Forget that. Think of Foggy. Think of Matt. Matt would lay down his life for you… for Foggy. Well, Karen, old girl… it's your lucky night. Tonight, __**you**__ get to play the hero. Just this once, you get to save the day._ Her hands were shaking. How the hell did Matt do this, day after day and night after night?

She scanned the street, looking for Paulo. That yellow trench coat should have stood out like a sore thumb. When she didn't see him, she took a hesitant step forward. A strong hand grabbed her and hauled her roughly into the alley beside Foggy's building. "Karen, baby!"

She ignored the genial tone. Three days in a car and almost another day in a hotel with him had taught her that he was always at his most cheerful right before he let his temper burst free. "Paulo," she said, forcing a smile and trying to sound calm, "we've got to talk."

"Sure, baby," Paulo replied, grinning back. Without warning, he slammed her head into the brick wall. Then he laughed, low and menacing. "Let's talk..."

* * *

Matt waited at the top of the stairwell, just behind the door leading out to the roof and tried to ignore the sound of gunfire down below. He should be dealing with that, he thought with a pang of guilt. Just like he should be doing something about the brutal beating that Kingpin's assassin was delivering to the spy-cum-handler who'd been briefing him. Not that the thug didn't deserve some roughing up—Matt might have dished it out himself, had he been in costume—but this guy wasn't stopping and Matt knew he'd never make it down to the alley in time to make. He could just stand here, waiting, his fists clenched in impotent fury as he heard Vibram boot soles clamber up metal stairs that creaked under the climber's weight. By the time the man made it to the rooftop, Matt was seething. The person whom he was about to face was here to murder the only friends he had left. Oh, he wasn't the real enemy; not the man Matt really wanted to face. No, this assassin was no Kingpin… but he would do. Matt smiled grimly and slid the heavy iron bolt into position, locking the stairwell door from the inside.

He heard the hired killer stalk toward the door, feet crunching on dead leaves and concrete, heard a grunt and then felt the door he was leaning on shift ever-so-slightly forward in response to a yank on its handle. If what he'd overheard in the car on his way over, and in the alley a moment ago, were anything to go by, Matt thought he could predict the assassin's next move.

Sure enough, the heavy wooden door shuddered in response to two heavy fists attempting to batter it down. The wood cracked and buckled. Perfect. Matt balled up his own leather-gloved fist and lashed out, punching through the stressed door, to where he guessed the killer was standing. His knuckles grazed bone and struck muscle and cartilage—a throat shot, corroborated by the sound of his adversary wheezing as the blow knocked the wind out of him. Good. Matt burst through the remains of the door and delivered a twisting split-kick to the startled man on the other side.

* * *

The black sedan looked purple-gray as it pulled into a closer parking spot on the dimly-lit street. The two men had been watching the apartment for hours, waiting to see whether Page or Nelson would attempt to leave the apartment before Kingpin's costumed hitman reached it. By the time they got out of the car, Page had been apprehended by the lowlife in the yellow trench coat, whom they'd observed earlier.

As both men drew their guns, one turned to the other. "Both?" he asked rhetorically.

His companion snorted. "'Course," he replied. His first shot clipped Trench Coat in the shoulder. The man cried out in rage and pain. Then he grabbed Page's arm and took off at a run, dragging her behind him. They wouldn't get far—not in the confines of that narrow alley and not with two armed men firing at them. The shooter smiled. "Boss didn't say we had to do 'em quick," he pointed out to his friend. "Let's have a little fun." He fired deliberately wide of his mark and chuckled. "I always did like a nice game of cat and mouse…"

* * *

Up above, Matt was releasing weeks of pent-up frustration. At first, his blows were forceful, but clumsy; a jab to his opponent's jaw sounded impressive, but didn't cause any damage.

"Five B," the thug said calmly, with a smile in his voice. He lashed out with his billy-club and Matt felt white-hot pain to a barely-healed rib. "Five B." Matt barely had time to flinch away from the second billy-club, so that it only grazed his jaw instead of breaking it.

_Focus, Matt_, he told himself. He had to get off of the defensive. He had to stop letting himself be goaded. Losing to Kingpin when he was at his lowest was one thing. Losing to a common thug when he was more than halfway recovered was completely unacceptable. He had to let go of his fury and concentrate on putting this guy down as quickly and cleanly as possible.

"Five B…"

This time, Matt knew where the strike was coming from. He lashed out with two fingers and struck the pressure point on his opponent's wrist. The billy-club dropped from nerveless fingers. Matt struck out again, this time to his adversary's throat. The other man dropped defenseless to his knees, down and—after one powerful kick that sent him reeling backwards to crack his head on the concrete rooftop—out.

For a moment, Matt stood, his head cocked, listening. A thin, satisfied smile flashed briefly on his face. The other guy was still breathing, his heart rate—elevated from the fight—was slowing down normally. Matt didn't imagine that he'd done any lasting damage. He pulled off his gloves and crouched down next to the fallen man. As he'd thought, the guy was about his own height and build—Kingpin had, at least, chosen a credible imposter on that score. He smiled. It seemed that he wasn't going to need to sew his own costume after all.

Gunshots from below and a too-familiar too-scared heartbeat startled him. _Karen_. What was she doing—? It didn't matter what she was doing outside. It didn't even matter that Matt probably couldn't make it to the pavement in time. Thanks to the billy-clubs that his unconscious adversary had been carrying, he wouldn't need to…

* * *

One minute, Karen had been sure that Paulo was about to murder her. The next, he was standing in front of her, firing a handgun at the people who were trying to kill them. Part of her wanted to run; part of her was sure that running would get her killed even faster; part of her wished that the sound of the gunshots didn't make it so hard for her to think. And then, Paulo was flying backwards, falling into her, almost knocking her over, as he tumbled to the ground, red blood stark against the front of his white dress shirt.

Forgetting what he had been doing to her a moment ago, Karen bent over him, examining the wound. As she did, she saw something else poking out of the inner pocket of his trench coat and her heart began to pound.

"I'm hit, Baby," Paulo whispered. "Get the gun."

Intent on the syringe in his coat pocket, she barely registered his instruction.

"No…" Paulo gasped, realizing what she was doing. "You stinking junkie… ripping me off."

He was right. She was nothing but a stinking junkie kneeling over a dying man in a dead-end alley. Somehow, that seemed to sum up her life. It didn't matter. She was dead anyway. Might as well get one last high. Nobody would know. Nobody would care. Nobody would even know she was gone. That wasn't true. Foggy would miss her. And Matt. But they'd be better off without her. Everyone would be. Dimly, she heard a gun cock. Paulo must have rallied enough for one last shot. It figured. One last shot for him. One last fix for her. If she could just find a good vein, get the stuff into her… It was good stuff. Maybe she'd be too high to feel the bullet when it came. _I love you, Matt_, she thought.

From behind her came a gasp of pain mingled with shock and the thud of steel on concrete. Instinctively, Karen glanced over her shoulder and her eyes widened as she took in the icicle impaling Paulo's shooting arm and the gun lying on the pavement. And then, a figure touched down between her and Paulo, and something white skimmed past her ear to knock one of the shooters at the mouth of the alley out cold. She saw the second man lying in a pool of blood. So, Paulo's shooting had accomplished that much. And then the figure turned and held out his arms to her. "Karen?"

The still-full syringe dropped from her fingers and she ran to him. "Matt!"

He put his arms around her and held her close. Sobbing, she hugged him back. "Matt."

They clung to each other for what seemed a lifetime, but yet, no time at all. "Come on," Matt said gently. "Let's get you back inside before you freeze."

"What about you?" she asked, as she let him pull her to her feet. Looking over his shoulder, she could see the syringe gleaming against the snow… beckoning to her. Gleaming like Paulo's gold tooth. Beckoning, but meaning no good. She knew it now and she'd known it then. The difference was… back then she hadn't cared. But even now, she was tempted. "Matt…" she whispered. "Behind you. The needle." If he didn't do something about it now, she might still find a pretext to go back to pick it up before anyone else did. "Someone might find it."

If Matt had any suspicions that part of her still yearned for that needle, he kept them to himself as he stamped down hard, crushing it and sending its contents into the snow.

Karen let out a long shuddering breath. The danger was past now. She was safe. Matt was safe. Foggy was…

"Ohmigosh!" she exclaimed. "Foggy!"

"He should be fine," Matt reassured her.

"No. I… I knocked him out with a flower pot."

"You what?"

Oddly, Matt sounded more startled than angry. Karen gulped. "Paulo was shooting at us. I thought if I went with him, he'd leave Foggy alone and I knew Foggy wouldn't let me go. I had to do it to keep him safe." Her shoulders slumped. "Pretty stupid, huh?"

"I think," Matt said, smiling oddly, "I'm not going to answer that right now. Come on. Let's make sure Foggy's okay and then…" his smile grew wider, "I need to get something off the roof."

* * *

Foggy was sitting on the sofa leaning his head back on something lumpy and wrapped in a towel. He groaned when Matt and Karen entered. "I thought we agreed," he said pointedly, "what happens in Delvadia _stays_ in Delvadia."

"What?" Karen asked, glancing from Foggy to Matt in confusion.

Matt tugged at his collar. "Uh… you remember downstairs when I didn't agree with you that knocking Foggy out with a flower pot was stupid—?"

"You didn't?" Foggy interrupted.

"Uh huh," Karen replied, ignoring Foggy.

"Well," Matt admitted, "when Foggy and I had to go to Delvadia on business, I… um… needed to get away and, rather than trying to come up with a reason or just giving him the slip—"

"Hang on," Foggy interjected. "Knocking me out with a flower pot wasn't stupid?"

Matt sighed. "All I meant was that if I agreed with you," he squeezed Karen's shoulder, "It'd be more than a little hypocritical, seeing as I did the same thing, a few years back."

"Y-you did?" Karen gaped.

"Well, I used a pressure point strike. Less likely to cause serious damage, but a bit more painful." He jerked his head toward Foggy. "Right?"

"Are we seriously having this discussion?" Foggy demanded. He leaned forward and the towel behind him shifted and released several melting ice cubes, along with a trickle of water.

Karen crossed to the sofa and flung her arms around Foggy's neck. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I just did it because—"

"You had to change into the Scarlet Witch?" Foggy guessed.

Karen giggled. "No." She clamped her lips together, trying to rein in her laughter, but another giggle broke through. Matt chuckled. And finally, Foggy wrapped one arm around Karen, extended his other toward Matt, and let loose with a hearty laugh of his own.

Matt was halfway to the sofa when the apartment door fell in with a mighty crash. And a rough voice bellowed, "FIVE B!"

Time seemed to freeze for a moment. Then Matt took a step forward. "Foggy, Karen," he said tightly, "get out of here. Take the fire escape down to the street." He settled into a fighting stance. "I said move!" he snapped.

"Towel full of ice on the sofa," Foggy said in an undertone. "Try not to smash the TV."

For an instant, Matt smiled. "Got it. Go." He moved until he stood between the thug and the entrance to the kitchen, shielding his friends as they made their escape.

Kingpin's assassin charged at him then, and Matt stepped out of the way, and gave the guy a hard shove in the back as he hurtled past. The thug landed heavily on Foggy's coffee table with a resounding crash that almost drowned out the sound of splintering wood. As Matt bent down, reaching for the thug's neck, the man kicked back, catching him in the stomach. Matt felt the air whoosh out of his lungs and a sharp pain from his ribs nearly brought him low. They weren't broken; he would have heard the crack. They were just bruised.

"Five B," the thug growled, springing toward him. Matt spun away. The guy was big, yes. Strong, yes. Angry, yes. But he was also hurt, clumsy, stupid…

…In other words, in the same sorry shape in which Matt had found himself some weeks earlier. He winced, then—for a reason that had nothing to do with that kick to the torso. He could hear sirens down below. The fight in the alley was over, but it looked as though police reinforcements were only just getting here now. The sound distracted him for an instant, though, and the thug knocked him clear across the room. He slid across the already-shaky coffee table—which collapsed entirely under his weight—and slammed his upper back into the edge of the sofa seat. Matt struggled to his feet and, as he did so, his hand came down on something bulky, cold, and damp. He smiled. The thug was charging him again and Matt swung the towel-wrapped ice in a wide arc and smacked him in the head. The thug reeled back. The towel opened releasing its contents. Most of the melting cubes had fused together into a large clump, which shattered on impact with the floor. The thug fell back into the armchair. He snarled and lurched for Matt again. As he started forward, his foot came down on a large piece of ice and he lost his balance. His arms flailed as he tried to regain it. That was when Matt delivered a powerful kick to his jaw and the thug fell back and cracked the back of his skull on the corner of the TV set. He struggled to rise for a moment before he slumped back down with a grunt. He didn't move again, though Matt could hear his ragged breathing.

Matt bent over the unconscious thug. He was dimly aware of two heart beats and two sets of footsteps entering from the kitchen. "I thought I told you to get out," he murmured.

"Yeah," Foggy agreed. "But we figured if he got past you, we could always run then."

"I think the set's okay," Matt remarked, "but you might need to get a new coffee table." He found the edge of the costume's cowl and lifted it up and off the thug's face. Then he tackled the shirt.

"Need a hand?" Karen asked.

Matt was about to refuse, when he realized that the police would likely be coming around to each apartment to question the residents. The faster he could get the costume off the thug and safely hidden way, the better. "Get the boots off," he directed.

"Don't worry about the table," Foggy said. "I got it for my first place, way back when we graduated. Debbie always hated it; she even tried donating it to Goodwill." He sniffed. "I had to chase after the truck for six blocks to get it back. Wish I'd told them to take the Memphis Milano… _thing_ she bought to replace it. When I moved out, I took it with me, but…" he shrugged, "it's not like I really loved it. More like I hated the alternative."

Matt managed to yank the costume's shirt up and over the thug's head. As he eased it past the arms, Karen fumbled with the trunks. "I'll replace it," he promised.

"No rush," Foggy said. "I can probably improvise something with stacks of old textbooks. Put a tablecloth over them and nobody'll notice."

Matt reached for the waistband of the tights. As he began unrolling them, he winced, as his hands encountered flesh, rather than fabric.

"Eww!" Karen exclaimed in disgust. "He went commando?"

"I was already planning to wash it before wearing it," Matt admitted. "I guess putting it through the cycle a couple of extra times won't hurt." He sniffed the air and concentrated. Sweat… adrenaline… Irish Spring soap and Head and Shoulders Shampoo… a number of other scents coming from the four of them and sundry objects in the apartment. Fortunately, one scent that he did not detect was that of blood. Running his fingers lightly over his attacker's body, he detected several areas on his skin that were warmer—evidence of bruising. But there was no blood. He smiled. That simplified things.

"Foggy, call 911. Report that we've just been attacked by a naked man whom we've managed to subdue."

"But the cops are—"

"And when they get here, they might be suspicious if nobody's phoned them. Make the call. I'm going to hide the costume."

"They'll need a search warrant to go snooping," Foggy pointed out.

Matt shook his head. "Kingpin sent this guy. Let's not take the chance that he's got people among the first responders. I'm hiding this."

* * *

By the time Matt had the costume draped over the lower bar of a hanger in Foggy's closet (with one of Foggy's suits hanging over it to conceal it completely), he could hear other voices and footsteps coming down the hall. He had to hurry. He considered the boots. On their own, there was nothing about them that screamed 'Daredevil' apart from the color. He put them neatly in one corner of the closet. Then he walked to the bed. Bending down, he shoved mask and belt between the iron bedstead and the box springs above. That ought to be good enough to fool any cursory inspections. He could look for a better hiding place later.

Smiling, he walked back into the living room to await the police.

* * *

"So you're saying the guy just barged in here in his birthday suit," the officer repeated. "You have no idea why."

"Correct," Foggy replied. "All I know is that one minute, we're sitting here talking and then the door falls in," he gestured to the pieces of splintery wood lying just inside the doorway, "he shows up," he pointed to the nude man on the floor, now handcuffed and beginning to come to, "and then there's a blur of red and Daredevil's telling us to get out of here."

The second officer looked up from his notepad. "So you left."

"Yeah, we went into the kitchen to get down the fire escape. Mac was already in there. He missed all the excitement."

"That true?" the first officer asked.

Matt nodded. "I didn't see a thing."

"Go on," urged the second officer.

"Well," Karen said, "we started out the door and I heard a crash. Foggy told Mac to get me to safety. We started down the steps, but Foggy waited on the landing."

The first officer glanced at Foggy. "Why?"

Foggy sighed. "Because I was stupid and I was worried about my apartment and it's not like I usually get a chance to talk to a real life superhero and I was hoping to get a chance to say 'hi' to Daredevil when it was all over, but by the time I thought it was safe to check the living room, DD was gone and this guy was lying there."

"We were halfway down when we realized that there'd been some kind of shoot-out right at the bottom of the fire escape," Matt added. "I didn't know if it was a good idea to walk into the middle of a crime scene and I think we both realized that Foggy wasn't with us at that point, so we went back upstairs."

There was a knock on the wall by the doorway and everyone glanced toward its source. Two EMTs entered carrying a stretcher between them. "That's the guy?" one of them asked rhetorically, gesturing toward the prone thug.

The first officer nodded. "All yours."

They watched as the EMTs eased the thug onto the stretcher and covered him with a blanket. The second officer leaned over and unfastened one of the handcuffs and refastened it around one of the siderails of the stretcher, chaining the thug to the bed.

The second officer surveyed the others. "Right. We've got your statements now. If you think of anything else," he handed a business card to Foggy, "call us. If we need any more information, we'll be in touch."

They left through the empty doorway. Foggy sighed. "I guess I'd better call the landlord. We could stay in a hotel for the night, but my stuff…"

Matt nodded. "Do you have duct tape? We can secure a blanket to the doorway for privacy and… I'm a pretty light sleeper." He smiled. "_And_ I won't go banging into stuff in the dark."

Foggy sighed. Then he picked up the phone, dialed a number, and spoke briefly, relaying—among other things—Matt's suggestion about taping up the blanket. When he hung up, he sounded a good deal more relaxed. "He knows a guy," he explained. "The door will be replaced by noon tomorrow—which means I'll need to work from home. So, I guess I've got another call to make and if Kelco doesn't like it… they can always fire me."

"You could quit," Matt pointed out.

"If I quit now, it'll look worse," Foggy retorted. "It'll make Kingpin think I know I'm working for him _and_ that I know he sent Nature Boy after us. I've got to stick this out for a little while, yet."

Matt sighed. "You're making a strong case for it. Fine. Just…"

"Yes, Mom," Foggy groaned. "I'll be careful."

While he and Matt set about taping up the blanket, Karen turned on the TV. After a moment, she sucked in her breath and then let it out slowly. "They got him," she whispered. "They arrested Paolo. It's over."

Matt finished securing his corner of the blanket at the same time that Foggy did his. Then he joined Karen on the sofa and wrapped his arm around her. She leaned into him. "It's over," she repeated.

* * *

Wilson Fisk read the report on his desk with mounting dismay. Four men dead—two of whom had been on his payroll. The police who had discovered them, much to his annoyance, had not been. They had opened an investigation into the employment records of the deceased; he knew that much. He had a legal team on it. Not one from Kelco—he'd made certain of that.

His assassin was in custody. The physician who had signed his release papers from the psychiatric institution had fled to Florida. His history had preceded him and he was now working as a gardener. Fisk had him under surveillance. When the furor died down, it was always possible that the man might be of some use to him.

Two police officers were dead. He debated whether to send flowers to the funerals. On the one hand, it would help to cement the reputation he was trying to build as a community leader. On the other, perhaps it was a bit much.

He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. "Your progress with the Businessmen's Association?" He frowned at the response from the party on the other end. "Brian Colan. Executive vice president of Roxxon. He has a daughter, I believe. Lorraine. Arrange to have her arm broken. Ensure that Colan knows why, and what he needs to do to safeguard her other limbs." He hung up the phone, wondering whether he wasn't overreacting to recent events. His didn't like to show his hand often. But recent events were beginning to crack the façade that he had so carefully crafted about him and as those cracks grew wider, he feared that his efforts to patch them were growing sloppier. It would all be worth it if things held together long enough for his damage control to stick.

He turned to the second page of the report and his frown deepened. They'd arrested Kemp. That was trouble. Kemp had been the assassin's handler; perhaps the only person at the scene who could point a finger back to him. Prudence would suggest eliminating him. Unfortunately, he'd been doing far too much housecleaning recently—eliminating the chain of individuals that could link him to Page; clearing away anything and anyone who could connect him to Manolis. Kemp had been with him for years. He reached for the phone once more—this time to arrange for legal counsel.

He was still no closer to determining Murdock's whereabouts. According to the police reports, he'd been there to rescue his friends, but nobody had sighted him since. Judging from the state in which the assassin had been found, Fisk believed that he could safely assume that Murdock had his costume back. Surely it was only a matter of time before he would be spotted once more.

Time, though, was one commodity that was increasingly in short supply.

The phone rang before he could pick up the receiver. He picked it up on the second ring. "Yes?"

What he heard caused him to fling the phone across the room in a rare display of temper. Lois had been talking. And she knew far too much of his activities for him to ignore her disloyalty. He needed to deal with this immediately.

And then he remembered. His informant had stated that she was due to grant an exclusive interview to one Ben Urich three days from now. A slow smile spread his lips. Perhaps he didn't need to handle things at this precise moment. Yes… he could definitely wait another three days…


	19. Chapter 19

References: Daredevil Vol. 1, Nos. 230–232.

**Chapter 19**

Ben Urich stubbed out his cigarette in the nearly-overflowing ashtray by his typewriter and immediately pulled a carton out of his breast pocket to take another. He held the carton in his hand for a moment, considering. Then he set it down on the desk and took a gulp of lukewarm coffee. He was having a good day. Actually, he'd been having a good week. Ever since he'd sat himself down and written that piece on the Kingpin, he'd felt like things were looking up.

He hadn't been sure that Jonah would print it; one of his earlier stories—ironically enough, a _tamer_ story had already gotten the _Bugle_ sued for libel. Jonah didn't care about getting people angry. He frequently reveled in it. When it came to legal fees and fines, however, it was different. Jonah would go to the mat for his people, so long as they had done their due diligence and had the facts to back up their statements. If they didn't, depending on the penalties demanded by the subject of the story, the reporter might well find themselves out of work, or reduced to writing puff pieces for the Life or Society sections. Of course, Ben's story _had_ been true and the politician he'd had exposed was currently serving time in a minimum security prison, so it had all come out right in the end. And Jonah—while he hadn't actually come out and said it—had been glad to see Ben shake off the mental paralysis he'd been locked in since the night he and Manolis had been attacked in the hospital parking lot and write that story.

Even Ben's sick horror at having his home invaded, his wife endangered, his bodyguard nearly murdered had been intertwined with a thread of relief when he'd realized that someone had been on-hand to protect him and subdue his attacker. Not just someone…

…His phone rang, jolting him out of his thoughts. He picked up the receiver. "Urich, here."

The caller on the other end hesitated. "I caught your piece on Kingpin. Though I suppose you must know that. Can we talk?"

_Matt_.

* * *

Wesley was Kingpin's right-hand man. He was used to seeing his employer act decisively, even ruthlessly, when the situation required it. He'd long known that Wilson Fisk picked his battles carefully and seldom allowed emotion to cloud his judgment. It made his employer's current orders seem all the more bizarre.

"Sir," he ventured, "may I ask you to repeat that? I'm not certain I understood."

The look that Kingpin turned on him was murderous and Wesley took an involuntary step backwards. "I just want to be sure I carry out your instructions properly," he said hastily.

Almost imperceptibly, Kingpin relaxed. "Very well, Wesley," he said. "Once more. Contact General Shores. Let him know that word has reached me of his difficulties in procuring certain resources required for his Nicaraguan campaign in a timely manner. Let him know that I possess those resources and am willing to trade them for an item he currently holds in his possession."

So, Wesley _had_ heard correctly. "A… nuclear weapon, sir?" he whispered.

Kingpin chuckled softly. "Ah. I understand your confusion, Wesley," he rumbled. "No. When you make my proposal to the general, you will leave off the indefinite article. I am not seeking to obtain _a_ nuke. No, Wesley. You will inform the general that I am seeking to obtain the services of _Nuke_. He will understand precisely what you mean," he added, when Wesley still hesitated. "Make the call."

* * *

With Matt working a later shift at the diner that week, he was able to wake up at a more reasonable hour. He still cooked breakfast—although for considerably fewer people.

"I hope Spanish omelets are okay," he said, as he lifted one frying pan in each hand and tilted them so that their contents slid onto the respective plates. "I tend to get a lot of orders for them." He set the plates down before his friends and, without missing a beat, slapped Foggy's hand away as it snaked toward the ketchup bottle. "Try it first," he advised.

From Karen's giggle, Matt suspected that Foggy must have rolled his eyes or conveyed his annoyance in some other silent fashion. Still, after making an ostentatious show of rubbing his wrist, Foggy picked up his knife and fork and deliberately cut into the ketchup-free omelet. "Delicious," he proclaimed, "but everything is _still_ better with ketchup."

"I'll remember that, the next time you want a peanut butter and banana sandwich." For a moment, Foggy was silent and Matt wondered with a sinking feeling whether his best friend was actually considering the combination.

"_Almost_ everything," Foggy amended. He reached for the ketchup bottle. This time, Matt let him.

"If it makes you happy, I'm taking less than usual. Say, Matt?"

Matt was already back at the counter about to crack a second egg for his own breakfast. "Hmm?"

"That reporter you're meeting with, Urich… you mentioned earlier he knows who you are. I'm guessing he found that out on his own?"

Matt reached for the whisk and began beating the eggs. "I didn't tell him, if that's what you're asking. He was doing his research, trying to break a big story and…" he sighed, "either he got all his facts straight or he made an educated guess; I'm not sure which. He confronted me in the hospital once, after I'd fought the Hulk. I couldn't lie to his face—especially not when he handed me a photo and asked me to identify it."

"How could you…?" Karen asked, confused.

The butter sizzled and Matt poured his eggs into the pan. "I couldn't. That was the point. He'd figured out that I was Daredevil, and he knew that if I was blind, then I wouldn't be able to tell what was in that picture." He smiled. "Clever of him. Also impressive for another reason: he didn't immediately decide that it was impossible for me to be both blind _and_ Daredevil."

"Um…"

"Relax, Foggy. It wasn't an unreasonable assumption on your part. And I certainly don't go around _advertising_ that Daredevil can't see. Still, it was a bit gratifying that he didn't draw that same conclusion. Why the interest?"

Foggy hesitated. "If he could do some research and figure out who you are," he said slowly, "do you think that he could do some research and figure out how you were framed?"

"It's too dangerous," Matt said. "He and his wife were almost killed a few days ago over that Kingpin piece. I'm not going to ask him to get any further involved. If he'd asked me, I would have advised against his writing that story in the first place."

"Do you think he would have listened to you?"

Matt shook his head. "No, but I still would have advised him. Besides," he said slowly, "I don't want to ask him to do anything for me. It… feels like I'm calling in a favor. As if I'm expecting him to endanger his life after I saved it, _because_ I saved it. I…" His voice trailed off. He added vegetables to the frying pan. Then he took a breath and repeated more forcefully, "No. It's bad enough you're doing what you're doing, but you, at least, aren't going poking around and arousing suspicion. Ben's a reporter. Reporters ask questions. Those questions will be noticed by the wrong people. No."

Foggy sighed. "It was a thought."

"Fortunately, not one of his." He turned the omelet onto his plate and carried it back to the table. "Karen?" he asked, tilting his head slightly toward her, "You're sure you'll be okay coming back on your own today?"

"Now that Paulo's in custody?" Karen replied, smiling. "I'll be fine."

"If you change your mind," Foggy said seriously, "call me. I can duck out to bring you home and then go back to the office if I have to."

"Or come by the diner for lunch," Matt chimed in. "I can introduce you to Ben. Bring a book or something to do until the end of my shift and then we'll head out together."

"Thanks, guys," Karen said. "But I think it'll be okay."

* * *

"We match," Doris Urich said in a husky voice, as her husband wrapped a gray woolen scarf about his neck and tucked it into his overcoat. Ben shot her a confused look, which dissipated rapidly as she smilingly fingered the silk scarf in the same color wrapped about her own.

"Oh," he smiled, as he took a step forward to embrace her. Doris had seldom worn scarves before—particularly not indoors—but the attack several days ago had left her with unsightly bruises around her neck from where her attacker had hanged her from the bathroom shower bar. The doctor in the emergency room had assured them both that she would make a full recovery and that the marks would fade in time. Meanwhile, she wore scarves, drank copious amounts of hot tea and honey, and tried to give her vocal chords time to heal. "I'll be a bit late coming home," he whispered, holding her close.

She looked up at him, concern etched on her features. "You're not doing anything dangerous, Ben, are you?" she whispered back.

He shook his head, still smiling. "No, no. I'm… interviewing someone in police custody this evening. It's an exclusive," he added, knowing that she wouldn't press for details. She'd always accepted that being married to a journalist meant being married to a man who kept many things to himself. He was glad of it now; Doris would probably be horrified to know that he was going to be meeting with the woman who had given her those scars. "Before that, though, I'm meeting a friend for coffee."

"You could bring him here," Doris suggested.

Ben shook his head. "Not the best idea," he said.

Doris nodded. "I'm just… worried. Especially when you're not home." She was more careful about locking the door now. And once Ben was home, if he didn't latch the chain, she was quick to do it herself.

"Tell you what," he said, "why don't you visit your mother today? I'll pick you up after the interview and we can have supper together before I go back to the _Bugle _to type up the story. How does that sound?"

"I'm sorry," Doris whispered. "I hate being scared in my own home. But…"

"But you were attacked and if Daredevil hadn't been here to help, it would have been a lot worse." Ben fantasized for a moment about telling Doris that that friend he was meeting _was_ Daredevil. Of course, he wouldn't. He probably guarded that secret more closely than Matt Murdock himself. And if Doris knew, she'd probably insist that he bring Daredevil back home so that she could thank him properly. If the Kingpin was still watching him—or Matt—or, as was more than likely, both of them, then even if Matt were to consent, it would be putting Doris in far more danger than she knew. (He tried not to think about the danger that he and Matt were already in. There wasn't much he could do about that, but he would protect Doris to his dying breath.) "Go on. It's fine."

Doris gave a slight nod. "I'll think it over. You be careful."

"You too."

It was fine. Everything was just fine. Or, at least, that was what Ben kept telling himself as he left his building and headed for the subway.

* * *

When his secretary buzzed him shortly before ten that morning to let him know that a certain General Shores was asking to speak with him, the Kingpin instructed her to keep the man on hold for precisely five minutes before putting the call through. The general was an important man—in Nicaragua, but it didn't hurt to let him know where he stood with Wilson Fisk. When the call came through, Fisk greeted him heartily, as a benevolent benefactor, but with no more respect that he would have afforded any other caller.

If the general was at all miffed, he wasn't showing it. "I'm so glad you could take my call, Mr. Fisk. Ah…" he hesitated, "Just thought you'd be glad to know that… ah… Nuke, I mean… Agent Simpson… Well, he's en route, Mr. Fisk. Coming your way, just like you… like you wanted." Fisk said nothing. He waited. "I have… ah… delivered the goods, Mr. Fisk, and… and, well…" Fisk exhaled, but said nothing, letting the sound of his breathing be the only indication that he was still on the line. The general cleared his throat nervously. "…Well, I'm waiting for the goods you promised me."

A slow smile spread Fisk's lips. "Thank you for your service, General," he said, with the same degree of condescension that he would have used to address one of his subordinates. "I'll make the necessary arrangements. You should have your shipment within the week." He hung up the phone in the middle of the general's expressions of gratitude.

Nuke. It was such a simple term for a living weapon—one that he intended to aim at the man who might just have the power to topple the empire that Fisk had painstakingly created over the years. He feared few men, but Murdock had just earned a place among them. The man had nothing left to lose, and thus nothing left to fear. _While he…_ Fisk's jaw hardened. He was currently more powerful than he had ever been, but once a man reached the pinnacle, there was only one direction in which he could go. Instinct told him that if Murdock was not dealt with quickly, then that man, the man whom he had ruined, beaten, and left for dead would be the very man who would destroy him. Fisk pursed his lips. That scenario must not be permitted to occur.

Meanwhile, although there was little he could do about Murdock until Nuke arrived stateside, there was one more loose end that needed tying. He checked his rolodex for a telephone number and dialed it himself. "Commissioner," he said, "I understand that the reporter Ben Urich will be visiting the Tombs today to interview Lois Jensen. You will see to it that Officer Coogan is on duty at the time of the interview. That is all."

As he hung up the phone, he permitted himself a slight smile. With any luck, he'd have two minor irritants neutralized before the end of the business day. And as for Murdock, it wouldn't be much longer before he would join them.

* * *

Matt had been right to warn him about Kelco. Given a bit more time, Foggy would probably have figured out for himself that the ham sandwiches in the firm's cafeteria weren't the only thing about the organization that wasn't kosher, but the advance warning had been helpful.

He read over the details of the case he'd been assigned and clenched his jaw. Patent blocking. Some years earlier, Parvell Pharmaceuticals had taken out a patent on a stroke-prevention drug, not because they actually intended to create the drug, but rather to block their competition from developing it first. It was legal—Parvell held a patent for one of the ingredients that would make the medicine work. But it made Foggy's skin crawl to know that he was working for a company that was deliberately trying to prevent the invention of a potentially life-saving procedure. And now, Parvell was accusing another company of violating their patent and coming up with a similar treatment. And Kelco was representing them. _He_ was representing them.

Foggy bit down on his lower lip. When he'd been a junior in high school, he'd lost his grandmother to a stroke. Two years later, her younger sister had survived one—but she wasn't the same person she'd been prior. And here was a company trying to improve the recovery chances for stroke patients and Kelco expected him to get a judge to agree to stop them. Parvell might be legally within their rights, but morally, ethically… Foggy closed his eyes. It was legal. It wasn't right, but it was legal. It wasn't right, but…

Foggy swallowed hard. It wasn't as though he'd never taken on a case he'd disagreed with. And Parvell did hold the patent. But this…

He sighed, turned in his swivel chair to the bookcases behind him, and rolled to his left. He pulled two volumes on patent law and laid them on his desk. Then, he unwrapped the overstuffed hero sandwich he'd bought for lunch and bit into it.

The fried mushrooms that oozed out weren't the only thing in his office that felt slimy at the moment.

* * *

Seated on a wooden bench in Central Park, Ben Urich held his overcoat closed with his hands, trying to protect himself from the bitter wind that blew through the spaces between the buttons that fastened the front of it. Out of the corner of one eye, he could see his police protection Officer Hegerfors seated one bench over, pretending to be engrossed in feeding the pigeons. Ben looked up and to his left at Delacorte Clock and tried not to worry. Matt had said he'd meet him here at ten-thirty and it was now just about twenty-five past. He was less concerned about Matt's whereabouts than he was about sitting here in the freezing cold. He reached for his cigarette pack. He couldn't smoke around Doris, these days—not when she winced every time she coughed. She didn't complain, but every time he heard those coughs tearing at her throat, they tore his heart as well. He didn't think he could give up cigarettes _and_ put up with Jonah, but he could at least smoke away from his wife.

He heard a faint creak and felt the narrow wooden planks shift under him as a dark-haired man sat down next to him and leaned back. Ben suppressed a groan. There was no way that Matt would approach him if he wasn't alone, but if he got up now, Matt would miss him. He cleared his throat. "I'm… uh… waiting for someone," he said, hoping that the stranger would take the hint. Meanwhile, Hegerfors was sitting up straighter, one hand reaching into his jacket, where Ben knew he kept a handgun in a shoulder holster.

The other man smiled. "I guess this means the disguise is working. How have you been, Ben?"

Ben blinked. Then he let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be… It's good to see you." He glanced to Hegerfors and mouthed an 'okay'. The big man relaxed.

"Good to hear your voice," Matt said warmly. "Sorry to get you out here on a day like this; I wasn't sure it would be best to walk up to you at the restaurant looking like this."

"What, at Schnapp's?" Ben scoffed. "Who'd notice or care?"

Matt coughed. "Well, Otto, for one. I'm not supposed to leave the grill area until the lunch rush is done." He smiled again. "I've been working there for about a month already." He heard Ben suck in his breath and he barrelled on—as though he could outrun the commiseration that he felt certain was imminent. "It pays the bills. And, as it turns out, I'm a decent cook." He walked several steps before he realized that Ben was no longer following. "What?"

"It was you?" Ben said, sounding almost angry. "You mean to say you're the reason that Schnapp's has suddenly gotten so crowded I can barely hear myself think, never mind organize my story ideas? That's your fault?"

Matt raised an eyebrow. "Um… maybe?"

Ben sighed. "I will admit that the food _has_ gotten a bit better. I don't think anyone's going to be giving Otto a Michelin Star any time soon—"

"Give me a year," Matt deadpanned.

Ben hesitated. "Is that what you want?"

"For the time being," Matt replied. "Let's just say that realistically, Otto's got a better chance of getting a Michelin star in the coming year than I do of getting my life back until Kingpin goes down. For now… why don't we both head over to Schnapp's? I need to prepare for the noon crowd, but it's not going to start getting busy until about six. That gives you time now to organize your story, I'll set you up with whatever you need to eat to tide you over, and we'll catch up after I finish. Sound good?"

Ben fell into step behind him. "I'm… not sure."

It hadn't been much of a conversation. Matt was clearly doing better than he had been the last time Ben had phoned him, right when the corruption accusations had started to fly. Still, it worried him that Matt appeared to have put his old life so far behind him. Daredevil hadn't been spotted in weeks. For a moment last week, Ben had thought things might be changing. That had been when one of his contacts at the NYPD had informed him that Daredevil had come to the aid of an apartment resident, when some thug—recently released from psychiatric care—had broken down his door and burst in, bent on violence. Then he'd seen the name of the resident. He and the woman with him had been the only two people claiming that the masked hero had been at the scene. Nobody else had spotted him entering or leaving the building.

It had been the same thing earlier that same day, when Matt had taken out Lois. It _had_ been Matt—he'd admitted as much today—but it hadn't been Daredevil.

Ben was worried. Worried enough to consider calling Foggy Nelson to sound him out, though it would be a delicate conversation. As far as Ben knew, Foggy wasn't aware of Matt's alter ego. Still, Ben knew all about being delicate. Protecting his sources was a way of life with him and the skill transferred easily to other situations that required a level of discretion.

In the meantime, Ben thought, as he lit up a cigarette and continued on his way, he and Hegerfors had an appointment at the Tombs. But first, they needed to swing by the _Bugle _to pick up two more people: Glori O'Breen—Matt's old girlfriend—whom Jonah had just hired as a staff photographer, and Blanders, a man he personally detested, but one who generally had good connections and knew which palms to grease to get better results. Jonah was insisting that he tag along as well. Ben hoped that the interview would be worth the aggravation.

* * *

Blanders hadn't shut up since leaving the _Bugle_ office. Ben did his best to tune him out as the quartet made their way inside the Tombs. Maybe if he made small talk with someone else, the blowhard would get the message. Ben hated small talk. For want of anything better to say, he reminded Glori not to take pictures of the building interior. They'd never see print; readers wanted to see faces and action, not walls and furniture.

"You've explained it well enough, Mr. Urich," Glori replied in a clipped tone.

Blanders laughed heartily. "Shouldn't get testy with Urich, Glor'. Jameson made him responsible for you, and Urich? He's a real loner. Doesn't even like having the cop around…"

Ben was done with hinting and hoping. "Shut up, Blanders," he snapped.

Blanders placed a hand on Glori's shoulder. "I'm no loner, Glori."

"You're close to losing that arm," Glori warned. Ben's lips twitched. He'd been prepared to say something and still might, but it looked like the young woman could handle herself quite well without his intervention. He flashed his press card to the uniformed officer guarding Lois's cell and gave his name.

The officer nodded and glanced from Ben to his bodyguard. "Hegerfors," he said coldly.

The blond cop didn't bat an eye. "Coogan," he replied in the same tone.

The officer, whose name appeared to be Coogan sniffed. Then he shrugged, unlocked the cell door, and ushered them inside. He followed.

The cell was larger than Ben had expected. He'd seen smaller ones that were expected to house as many as four inmates at once. But even with six people in the room, it didn't feel overly cramped. Lois was sitting on the single bunk. Ben dragged a stool next to her.

So. Here he was, less than two feet away from the woman who had intimidated him, broken his fingers, tried to murder Manolis, and nearly murdered him last week. She'd hung Doris from the shower curtain rod in their bathroom. She'd beaten Hegerfors into unconsciousness. And she'd asked to speak to him—not to 'the press,' but to him—on the record. Part of him had wanted to refuse. Go to the Tombs, yes—to reassure himself that Lois was safely locked away and no longer a threat. But to talk to her, interview her, question her… He hadn't told Doris that it was Lois he was going to talk to. He had a pretty good idea how she would have reacted. She would have pleaded with him to stay away from the Tombs. _That woman doesn't get to call the shots_, she would have said. _She's hurt us enough. She doesn't get to demand to speak to you. Let someone else get the story, or let nobody get the story. Just stay away from her. She's done too much already._

Two weeks ago, Ben would have listened. Two weeks ago, he'd begging Jonah to give him puff pieces and doing his best not to think about Matt—that had been how badly he'd let Kingpin get to him. Being an investigative reporter was sometimes dangerous, but he'd never been this spooked before. It had taken Manolis's near-death to make him see that Jonah was right: he had let himself get scared off of a story. Jonah was many things: a blusterer, a bully, at times—times when Spider-Man was the subject of discussion—he could be a fool. But he held freedom of the press to be sacrosanct and he would never compromise his principles and back away from running a story that exposed a criminal organization, if he had the facts to back it up. That kind of story always boosted circulation.

Lois had broken Ben's fingers as a warning. Afterwards, Ben knew that Kingpin had had him watched, cautioned to leave the matter alone. And it had worked at first. Then Lois had tried to kill Manolis before he could talk. She'd made the attempt with Ben listening on the phone to every grunt and gurgle. At first, Ben had believed she'd been successful. Only instead of sending him scuttling into a shell, it had worked like a bucket of cold water in his face.

Ever since he'd backed away from Matt's situation, he'd been drowning in fear and self-loathing. The attempt on Manolis had shocked him back to himself. He'd written the first part of his six-part story in under two hours, the words pouring out of him in a blaze of rage and passion. Every sentence, every word, every comma had flowed onto the page. He hadn't been a journalist, he'd been a conduit—the means by which the story had emerged into print. He hadn't been conscious of what he was writing, only that writing was happening through him. And when he'd nearly ripped the sheets out of his typewriter and slapped them down on Jonah's desk, he'd had to suppress a yell of triumph. He hadn't even cared when Jonah savaged his spelling errors and struck out several redundant phrases. The story was out and Ben Urich was back.

And if Lois wanted to share her story with him, he would restrain himself from throttling her in her cell and get that story. Then he'd go home to Doris and not set eyes on the woman again until her trial. And after her sentencing, never again.

But for the moment, there was the story.

Lois lifted her head as he sat down. "Urich," she said, sounding a good deal less menacing than she had the last time he'd heard her voice.

"Doris," he returned. On the periphery, he registered two sounds: Glori snapping a photo (good. She'd been paying attention), and Coogan locking the cell door.

Hegerfors made an irritated sound. "You don't have to lock it, Coogan," he snapped. "There's plenty of us…" Then his voice trailed off, as Ben heard another sound: the sound of a gun being cocked. "Coogan?" Hegerfors sounded startled. "What are you…?"

Ben's heart skipped a beat and he saw a look of terror on Lois's face, as he heard another gun cock behind him. He glanced hurriedly over his shoulder and felt his blood run cold when he saw Blanders pointing a second gun at Lois. And then he pulled the trigger.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: I'm pegging Ben's age as mid-to-late 50s. Since Born Again came out in 1986, that puts Ben in his early 20s around the time of the Korean War.

Some dialogue written by Frank Miller and lifted directly from Daredevil Vol. 1, No. 232.

To comics purists: my apologies for working in one character from the Netflix TV show. I couldn't resist…

**Chapter 20**

Before Ben had time to react, both guns fired. The force of Blanders' bullet slammed Lois into the wall of her cell. She never cried out. It wouldn't have mattered if she had. The bullet made a neat entry wound in the center of her forehead and she was dead before she hit the wall.

Hegerfors had time to draw his own weapon, but before he could aim it, Coogan's bullet hit him in the abdomen. Even as he went down, he fired, and Coogan slumped against the door, one hand against his rib cage, as though he could keep his blood from spilling out.

Blanders aimed his gun a second time, this time at the wounded Hegerfors.

…And Ben flashed back to his military training, specifically the ways in which an unarmed soldier could disarm an enemy with a gun. He was dimly aware that Glori O'Breen had her camera out and was snapping pictures, with seeming disregard for her own safety. Another time, he might have praised her instincts and dedication, but that wasn't his focus right now. His world seemed to shrink to a narrow field and there was only room in it for three things: Blanders, Hegerfors, and the gun.

As Blanders' fingers squeezed down on the trigger, Ben leaped up. He was twenty-two again in Korea and they were under attack. And, just as he had, more than thirty years ago, Ben lunged forward, locked his hands on the gunman's wrist, and forced his hand up so that the bullets fired over their mark and into the cell wall. Glori—Ben really would have to talk to her about the need to find cover when bullets were flying—got that on film, too.

Ben kept his hold on Blanders, letting his weight carry them both to the ground, and managed to wrest away the gun. Blanders struggled, using his free hand to claw at Ben's face. Ben winced. Then he brought the butt of the pistol down hard on Blanders' temple. It came away bloody, but he brought it down a second time, for good measure.

He'd lost count of how many times the shutter on Glori's camera had clicked. He'd lost track of everything except the knowledge that if Blanders got up again, he and Glori were both dead. So he made sure that Blanders wouldn't.

When his awareness returned, he was straddling Blanders' supine body. Lois was slumped on her cot, dead. Hegerfors lay face down in his own blood. He was still breathing, but he didn't sound good. Coogan was lying against the door, unmoving. And Blanders… Ben put a shaking hand on the fallen man's chest. There was no heartbeat.

No heartbeat from Blanders, but Ben's heart was pounding hard and fast enough for both of them. He got up as quickly as he could and staggered to the cell door. "Hey!" he yelled. "We need help, here!"

* * *

With most of the furniture in the new apartment a week before the move, Foggy's place seemed a good deal more spacious. "I think," Matt broached the subject hesitantly, "Karen and I might start looking for our own place soon."

This time, Foggy only nodded. "I figured that was coming. You're both working now, even if Karen is only doing some part-time bookkeeping."

"The church is hoping they'll get the budget to give her more hours."

"I know," Foggy said. "Meanwhile, I'm not kicking either of you out. Even if finding pantyhose drying over the shower curtain rod takes some getting used to."

Matt held up a warning hand. "I hope you know those aren't mine."

Foggy didn't laugh. "I hope _you_ know that if I—or, more to the point, someone other than me or Karen—were to find red tights hanging in the bathroom, especially if they were next to a matching shirt and mask, that would be a lot more problematic."

"I'm hardly a rank amateur," Matt pointed out, sounding slightly miffed.

"I know," Foggy said. "But for as long as you've been Daredevil, you've lived alone in a place where nobody came in unless you let them in first. This is going to take some adjusting for both of us."

"Both of us?"

Foggy sighed. "I don't want it to ever get to a point where I'm so used to seeing your costume lying around the apartment that it no longer strikes me as something to hide if a maintenance guy's coming in or we sent out for pizza or whatever. I guess I'm just trying to say that I don't want to turn into someone who's… well, taking your secret identity more seriously than you are. So, as much as I want this to feel like home until you and Karen actually find a place of your own…" he shrugged, "maybe on that one score, don't make yourself quite as much at home as you might want to?"

Matt nodded slowly. "I've been thinking it might be time to start patrolling again," he admitted. "My ribs barely bother me now and I have to admit that one reason I'm looking forward to the move is a chance to get off of this La-Z-Boy and into a real bed. But when I'm ready… you're right. I'll be careful. Maybe I'll see if there's some kind of place nearby where I can stash the costume, so it won't even need to be in the apartment."

"I don't know if you need to go _that_ far," Foggy said.

"I don't know if I'll find a safe hiding place. For now, though, I think I'm going to get back into the habit of wearing the suit under my clothes."

"While you're slaving over a hot grill?" Foggy shot back.

"I'll drink more water," Matt replied. "You're right. Keeping the suit lying around here is a liability and I'm not going to let the things I do put you in any more danger than you're already in while you're sleuthing around at Kelco."

Foggy sighed. "I still haven't found anything."

"I won't fault you for walking away." In fact, he would breathe a sigh of relief. Kingpin had been far too quiet lately. He had to know that Matt had survived; the harbor patrol had pulled the cab out of the river weeks ago. It had been in the papers, albeit buried in the classifieds. So, what exactly was Kingpin waiting for? All in all, keeping the suit on or near him at all times seemed only too prudent. If Kingpin even suspected that Matt was here, he certainly wasn't above having someone search the apartment during the day, when nobody was home.

"Is that what you'd do?" Foggy demanded, interrupting Matt's thoughts. "I mean, I know it's what you've wanted me to do since I came up with this idea, but if it had been _your_ idea to go in undercover, would you walk away at this point, or would you stick it out a bit longer?"

Matt took a deep breath and then exhaled. "I'd stick it out," he admitted. "I'd also skulk around after hours when most people had gone home and do exactly what you swore to me you wouldn't do: go digging into things that have nothing to do with anything I'd actually be working on. But that's because, if someone were to catch me in the act, I'd be able to fight my way out. I'm not so sure you can say the same."

"I can't," Foggy nodded. "But that doesn't mean I'm ready to give up. Guess that's your fault."

"Excuse me?"

"We were college roommates for four years, Matt, and in all that time, I never once saw you quit or back down from anything. You seriously think none of that can-do attitude rubbed off on me?"

Matt shook his head, but he couldn't quite keep a smile from coming to his lips.

* * *

"Welcome, Mr. Simpson," Fisk said, smiling and extending his hand. "Please. Be seated. May I offer you something to drink? Bottled water, perhaps?" He stooped to open the small fridge behind his desk and extracted a green bottle with a red label. "I've been advised that this one is considered quite refreshing."

Simpson frowned. "I don't recognize the name," he said. "Is it," he nearly spat the next word out, "foreign?"

Wilson Fisk made a mental note to reward the man who'd compiled the dossier on Frank Simpson. It had been an illuminating read, and extremely helpful in helping him to compose his 'sales pitch' for the black-ops soldier. The man's love for America surged beyond healthy patriotism and into near-obsessive jingoism. "Quite the contrary," he chuckled. "It's drawn from a spring in Arkansas and was a favorite drink of both Calvin Coolidge and Dwight D. Eisenhower."

Mollified, Simpson accepted the bottle. "So, it's a good American drink," he said approvingly. He twisted off the cap and took a swig.

Fisk waited for him to lower the bottle. "I appreciate your coming here, Mr. Simpson," he smiled. "Your predecessor—the first super soldier—faced simpler times than ours, my friend. And simpler wars." He sighed wistfully. "So much has changed. So much…" He warmed to his topic, working in his love for America (not feigned; America had been good to him. It had allowed him to build his empire. It was giving him the recognition that he had been seeking from his peers in the business world. It had no dearth of fools and patsies that he could manipulate and take advantage of. Yes, he loved this country.) and his contempt for the soft-hearted imbeciles running it (also true; they were useful to his ends, but still irritating pebbles that he couldn't quite seem to remove from his shoe—at least, not in full view of the public.). He remarked on how much Simpson reminded him of his son, "A fine boy… a veteran…" (two bald-faced lies, but Simpson was eating them up) and, in a rare moment of candor, admitted that he was involved in criminal enterprise. He spun his confession together with some pap about being unable to countenance the American people's unwillingness to honor its soldiers, killed in the jungles of Vietnam—

"Our boys," Simpson interrupted in a voice choked with emotion Fisk had nearly laughed aloud at how well this was going.

"There are those who say," he continued, "that unity is conspiracy… that America is evil."

Simpson pressed his lips together and nodded. "I know what they say," he whispered. "I know what they say." He was trembling now and Fisk placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"And now," Fisk issued his call to action, "a single man threatens to destroy what we have built. He moves against me, calls me a villain…" He coaxed a note of desperation into his voice, reaching out to Simpson on an emotional level. "I am not a villain, my son. I am a corporation in the conglomerate that is America. But his allies in the press…" There had been a page in Simpson's dossier that stated that the soldier had reserved several choice words for the media, holding them accountable for the anti-troop sentiment at home at the height of the Vietnam War. He let his voice trail off, hoping that Simpson would take the bait.

"The press…" Simpson repeated in a voice laced with contempt. Then contempt yielded to cold fury. "Where is he?"

There was the rub. In point of fact, Fisk didn't know. But he had his suspicions. Murdock would have had to have been close by Nelson's apartment in order to rescue his erstwhile law partner. That seemed to lend support to the theory that Matt Murdock and Nelson's current roommate Mac Jackson were one and the same. Especially, when one considered that Matt was the son of Battlin' Jack Murdock. Jackson. _Jack's son_. But he wasn't positive. And Nelson was currently involved in a rather delicate case at Kelco. Having to scramble to find another attorney at this juncture would be troublesome. No, attacking Nelson's home, especially so close on the heels of the last attempt was unwise. But there was another area to target. When he'd set out to ruin Murdock, Fisk had attacked his reputation, his finances, his career, his home, and ultimately… his life. But he'd ignored Murdock's first home—a part of the city where Mac Jackson was currently working as a short order cook. Yes. An attack on the old neighborhood should flush Murdock out of hiding. Or, perhaps, if Fisk was especially fortunate, it would eliminate him permanently.

He brought his lips close to Simpson's ear, creating an illusion of shared confidence.

"Hell's Kitchen."

* * *

"Quitting time, Mac," Arnie, the shift manager called. "See you in the morning."

Matt sighed. He'd lost track of the time, worked through his break again and the burgers did smell good. But Karen was waiting and he'd promised her a home-cooked meal, and if Foggy didn't grab one of those deli subs with a godawful combination of toppings on the way home, he'd probably appreciate some, too. He could wait to eat.

As he reached for his jacket, Irma pressed a paper bag into his hand. "You look thin, Mac. Take this home. You never had such cobbler." Matt smiled and thanked her. From the weight of the bag, he calculated that it would probably serve three, with a bit left over. Then again, Foggy had a sweet tooth. Matt resolved to pick up some fruit on the way home. If necessary, he'd have that and let Karen and Foggy split the cobbler.

He heard a familiar cough from the front of the restaurant. Ben was here. And he sounded like he was in shock. As he listened to what Ben was saying, he understood why.

"_Did I…? Did I really kill that man…?"_

Matt was about to go out there and find out what had happened, when he heard another voice he knew, one that spoke in a soft Belfast accent, a woman's voice with a tendency to rise up at the end of her sentences that made statements sound like questions. Glori.

"_You saved our lives, Ben."_

Matt shook his head slowly. He couldn't go out there now. He couldn't talk to Ben—in disguise—in front of an ex-girlfriend who might still recognize him, when he was trying to lie low. Besides, Karen would worry if he was late meeting her. He ducked out the back door, still hearing Ben's voice.

"…_Blanders. I really killed him."_

That was when he heard the sound of whirring helicopter blades overhead. Police choppers were common enough occurrences in the sky over Manhattan, Matt knew, but going by the roar of the motor and the coughing and choking from pedestrians three or four blocks away, this one was flying too close to the street to be police.

Then he heard the gunshots and there was no more time for figuring out what was going on. People were dying and he had to act. From the sound of the shots, the gunman was on the move. And he was heading straight for…

…The church.

_Karen_.

Matt ran.

* * *

He felt the heat from the rocket even before he heard the impact. His radar sense was crude in comparison to his other four working senses, but from what he could tell from the shape against the Hell's Kitchen skyline, the church was untouched. The building was old and solidly constructed. It could probably withstand an earthquake. But the rockets were still coming and if one of them were to go off nearby… He heard a far too familiar moan and he put on a fresh burst of speed. His ribs were screaming as he ran the last half-block.

* * *

She was sitting on the lawn, slumped against church's outer wall. Someone—Sister Maggie—was bending over her. "Karen!" he gasped, racing toward her. He was panting from the exertion, but he still felt a wave of relief wash over him. He didn't hear the crunch of broken bones. He could smell blood on her, but not enough to cause him alarm. Her breathing was fast and her heart was pounding; she was scared—and understandably so—but she didn't seem to be seriously hurt.

Sister Maggie turned to him. "When the rockets started flying, she was in the yard with the preschool. She got the children inside and went to do a final sweep to be certain that everyone was inside, when a rocket struck the property across the street. I believe the force of the blast must have propelled her into the wall."

"Matt," Karen called feebly, stretching out a hand to him. He took it, hoping that anyone who might be listening would think she'd said 'Mac'.

"Karen."

She took a shuddering breath. "Am… am I dying?"

Matt shook his head, tears of relief burning his eyes as his senses confirmed the superficiality of her injuries. "No, no, honey," he reassured her. "Everything important in you is safe."

He turned to Sister Maggie. "Is anyone else hurt?"

"Inside," the nun replied. "Oh, nobody else was injured here, but these attacks have torn up parts of Tenth and we've had people bringing their injured here, rather than try to get to Roosevelt. I've heard that St. Vincent's has taken damage, too." She sighed. "A number of people who haven't been harmed are here, too. At times like this, it's normal to take comfort in prayer."

"Doctors?"

Sister Maggie paused for a moment, thinking. "I believe that we have one or two off-duty paramedics on the premises. We've put out a call, but obviously the streets aren't safe for driving right now, so we'll need to wait for things to calm down."

"Right." Matt's mouth set in a grim line. He took a deep breath. "Take care of her for me, Sister. Please."

He touched his lips gently to Karen's. "I'll be back as quick as I can," he whispered. "Stay safe."

Karen's breath hitched and her heart rate sped up. "Are you going to…?"

"I'm going to make sure that the people who need help get it sooner rather than later."

"If you'd like to help, Mac," Sister Maggie cut in, "perhaps you can help me move Miss Page inside. I'm not sure I can manage that on my own."

"Oh. Of course." Chastened, Matt draped one of Karen's arms across his shoulders, wrapped his arm around her torso, and slowly stood up. Just because Karen wasn't critically hurt didn't mean she didn't need assistance.

Together, he and Sister Maggie got Karen inside the church and helped her to lie down across one of the pews in the chapel. She wasn't alone. All around him, Matt could hear other people breathing, whimpering, moaning, and crying. Some were talking softly to others close by. Others were calling for help.

Matt pressed his lips together. He had to get back outside. He had to stop whoever was doing this. Oh, he knew Kingpin was behind it—had to be, but there was someone else out there now, doing his dirty work.

But there were so many people in here who…

Matt's shoulders slumped. He couldn't help everyone. But he couldn't just turn his back on them without doing something, at least. "Sister?" he asked. "Where can I get a pitcher of water? And some cups?"

Twenty minutes later, when he'd run out of Styrofoam cups, Matt ducked into an empty room on the third floor and shed his street clothes.

A moment later, a billy-club trailing several yards of airline cable sailed out the open church window to snag the fire escape railing of the building next door.

And a red-clad figure who hadn't appeared in public in weeks swung across the smoldering Hell's Kitchen skyline.

* * *

Sailing through the air, Matt realized that Kingpin's vaunted patience was fraying. Matt had been on edge since the cab had been found, waiting for the other shoe to drop—but he was, by nature, impatient and impulsive. Stick had trained much of that out of him, taught him to suppress that part of him that made him sloppy and careless, but that training had been long ago and a lot had happened to him in the intervening years. In periods of high stress and emotional turmoil, if he wasn't extremely watchful, his original tendencies resurfaced. He hadn't been watchful when his life had begun to unravel. If he had been, it wouldn't have taken his house blowing up for him to recognize that all of the seemingly-random problems he'd been experiencing had been a concerted attack. He wouldn't have gone charging into dive bars and beating up lowlifes—not because he knew that they were guilty of anything, but simply because he'd been angry and confused and needed something to hit and they'd probably done _something_ (probably)—while demanding that someone talk to him about Murdock. And the more frustrated he grew, the harder he'd found it to keep it together—

He caught his breath. As much as he hated to consider it… perhaps he and Kingpin weren't really that different. At least, not on this one point. Kingpin hadn't needed to confront Daredevil directly. He hadn't had to reveal his involvement at all. All he'd needed to do was make a few phone calls, sit back, and wait. And if he hadn't succumbed to hubris and blown up the brownstone, figuratively signing his trap as though it were some work of art, Matt probably wouldn't have figured it out.

Daredevil paused on a rooftop and leaned against a chimney for a moment, thinking. Kingpin was a bully, bigger and more dangerous than any he'd faced as a boy, but a bully all the same. And bullies generally wanted something: lunch money, the answers to last night's math homework, a sense of power, yes… but more than that, they wanted a reaction.

Dad had always told him to ignore the bullies. "Show them they aren't getting to you and they'll give up and leave you alone." Matt had known better. Ignoring a bully didn't make them give up, it made them try harder.

Ever since that night when Spider-Man had fished him and Foggy out of the river, he'd been, in effect, ignoring Kingpin. Kingpin had been waiting for him to make his move, but between recuperating from his injuries, helping Karen detox, the new job, and a host of other things… he'd been in no hurry to confront his enemy again. He hadn't been ignoring him; he'd just had other priorities. And while he'd been taking care of them…

While he'd been taking care of them, _Kingpin_ had grown frustrated. Kingpin had grown angry and confused, even exasperated by Matt's failure to resurface. And now…

Matt's jaw hardened. All of this damage, all of these injured people, all of this terror was the work of a bully in search of a reaction. A bully whom frustration and impatience had made sloppy and careless. If it had been less horrific, it might even have been humorous, but all the carnage taking place below was no laughing matter. Even so, it told Matt something important: Kingpin was reeling now. And Daredevil had work to do. First the thug tearing up his city. Then the man who had unleashed him. Kingpin was on the ropes now. It was only a matter of time before Daredevil had him down for the count.

* * *

Foggy sighed as he gathered together a stack of manila envelopes and carried them over to his colleague's desk. "Here you go, Marci," he smiled. "Look it over tonight if you can; I'll be up pretty late packing things up. They're disconnecting my phone tomorrow morning at the old place and they're _supposed _to be hooking it up at the new one before noon…"

Marci tossed back her feathered blonde hair. "But there's no guarantee that they actually will," she finished.

"Exactly. So, please, if there's something you need to touch base with me on, call me tonight."

Marci nodded. "Will do. So, what's your new place like?"

Foggy blinked. "Huh? Um… well, it's bigger. Faces the street. Sorry, I'm not really good with describing stuff."

"Well," Marci said smiling, "maybe you could invite me up sometime, Foggy-bear," she reached up to adjust his tie and gently pulled him down so that his face was on a level with hers and mere inches away, "and let me see it for myself."

Foggy gulped. "Um… sure, I guess," he managed. "Maybe when the place isn't all full of… boxes. And… stuff."

Marci giggled. "Whenever you're ready. Good luck with the move, Foggy-bear."

* * *

Ever since Matt had opened up to him, Foggy had found himself more alert and more wary. So, when he spotted the non-descript figure in denims, wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and over a baseball cap with the brim down low, lounging by the stairs to his building, he automatically quickened his pace and tried to give the stranger the widest berth possible.

Until the stranger came forward, pivoted sharply onto the steps, and confronted him. "Mr. Nelson?"

Foggy nodded, all the while trying to remember the moves that Matt had taught him and hoping he wouldn't need to use them. "That's right."

The stranger pushed up the brim of his cap with his left hand and extended his right to Foggy. "Lieutenant Nick Manolis, NYPD." He stuck his left hand into his pocket and pulled out a leather ID wallet with a police badge. "You represented Matt Murdock at his grand jury hearing. I think we should talk."


	21. Chapter 21

References: Daredevil Vol. 1 #233. Some dialogue taken directly from the comic and originally written by Frank Miller.

**Chapter 21**

Foggy blinked. "I… you'd better come in," he said to Manolis, motioning to the off-duty police officer to follow him up the front steps. "Sorry. I'm moving tomorrow, so the place is a bit of a mess." Manolis nodded. As he moved away from the wall that he'd been leaning against, Foggy realized that the man was leaning on a crutch. "Uh," Foggy added, "there's an elevator."

Manolis nodded again. "Good to know. Let's get inside. I don't think I was followed, but I'd rather not linger out here in case somebody spots us."

Foggy tried to smile, but he still took the steps a bit faster than he might have not all that long ago.

* * *

Hell's Kitchen was on fire and screaming its agonies to the sky. He smelled the napalm, heard the buildings exploding into rubble, tasted charcoal and roof tar and smoke in the air. Razor-sharp fragments of glass and steel whistled past him. He smelled his own blood long before he felt the sting of their passing cuts. Below him, sirens wailed and so did—no. He couldn't think about children, babies, terrified, making their way to safety. He wanted to help them, but the best way to do that was to stop the one-man army responsible for this carnage. He couldn't listen to the children; he had to listen for the gun. The gun that was rapid-firing far too many bullets, far too far away from where he was now. How many more innocents were going to die tonight, he wondered.

He wondered and he moved, using the sound of gunfire as a homing beacon. He could hear the gunman now. Hard at first, with the chopper hovering overhead, but it got easier the closer he got to his quarry. A voice, tinny and slightly obscured by static said, "We're pulling out boy. Our target's vanished."

The chopper, Daredevil realized. It wasn't some news crew or Good Samaritan. They were assisting the murderer who was destroying the first home Matt had ever known. His jaw set as his radar sense found the killer, clinging to one of the chopper's landing skids with one hand, while he fired his gun with the other. Bad. With his billy club line, he might be able to snag the skid, but unless that killer ran out of ammo, Daredevil knew he'd never make it up there alive. So he listened to the conversation as he drew closer, hoping to overhear something that would give him an edge, even as he pushed out with his radar sense, trying to find a place to steer the battle when so many of the landmarks he knew were now so much rubble.

"Won't let you down, Colonel," the murderer was saying. "I'll find him." The man in the chopper protested, but the killer had already let go of the skid and dropped to a rooftop below. "Won't let you down. Won't let our boys down."

A couple of months ago, Daredevil might have gone charging after him, running on rage and adrenaline and not much else. Instead, he forced himself to hold his emotions in check, remembered every time that Stick had goaded him into losing his temper and how thoroughly the old blind sensei had trounced him when he did. Anger was a spark and something he could use. Rage, on the other hand, was a wildfire. It might lend him strength, but it also left him sloppy and vulnerable to attack. Before he went rushing in, he needed to take a moment, harness his anger, and get a better idea of what he was up against. Daredevil listened.

The killer's heartbeat was strong, but it was way too fast. He had to be hyped up on _something_. Amphetamines, maybe. Hopefully that was all he was on. Strong. Fast. Probably didn't have superpowers, or he wouldn't need the gun. Maybe.

Matt took a deep breath. His world constricted as his surroundings fell away. Every object outlined by his radar sense blurred into insignificance—everything but the hulking gunman less than a half-block away.

Daredevil broke into a run. As he neared the edge of the rooftop, he unholstered his billy club and tensed his muscles in preparation for a flying leap.

* * *

"So," Manolis said, accepting a mug of coffee, "what do you hear from Murdock?"

Foggy was starting to hate that question. "He's lying low," he replied. "After what happened on that stand, there isn't much of his old life left. I think he's trying to make a clean break."

Manolis frowned. "I notice you haven't denied hearing from him."

Foggy set down his own mug of decaf with a bit more force than was necessary. "Not denying something isn't the same as admitting it." Manolis waited. Foggy frowned. Finally, he let out a slow breath. "Matt's been in touch, but I really haven't had as much contact with him lately." That much was absolutely true. Those first weeks, neither of them had been working and they'd spent many more hours in each other's company. The fact that Matt was living here in no way contradicted the validity of Foggy's statement to Manolis.

"But you're still working on his case."

Foggy blinked. "Well… yeah. He's still my best friend and unless he fires me as his attorney… scratch that. Even if he decides to fire me as his attorney, I'm still fighting this. From what Daredevil tells me, we both know the judgment against him was undeserved." He sat up a bit straighter in the folding chair that he was reduced to, now that Spider-Man had air-freighted the sofa to the new apartment. "I'm presuming that's what you're here about?"

Manolis nodded. "I've been thinking things over. I might not be a lawyer, but I know enough about how things work to know that the statement I gave Daredevil probably won't be enough. Even if it were notarized, it likely wouldn't be. You need me to testify."

Foggy nodded. "It would be best, but I know what that's asking. Daredevil told me what happened to you when you tried to go to the press. I can't deny that it could happen again. And Witness Protection would—"

Manolis cut him off with a bitter laugh, reached into his pocket and pulled out several newspaper articles. "Read 'em," he said. "The guy who contacted me to accuse Murdock: went back to his nice suburban home one day, sat in his nice suburban garage, in his nice family compact car, rolled down his windows, and turned on his engine. The woman who landed me in ICU and later tried to finish the job? Killed in police custody when that reporter Urich arrived to interview her. Cop inside her cell at the time, name of Coogan, may have murdered another officer who was there to protect the reporter—that officer, the one he shot, is still in a coma. Coogan's dead, too. I have no idea how deep it goes, how many people this… guy? Woman? Organization?" Manolis shook his head, "…has their hooks into, but it's big and it's bad, and you and Murdock and Daredevil and Urich are about the only people I know I can trust in this city. I'm not trusting Witness Protection to have my back any more than I am one of my fellow officers." When Foggy opened his mouth to protest, Manolis held up a hand. "They got to me. They can get to anyone."

"There might still be some avenues that we can pursue to keep you safe." He frowned, trying to remember what he'd paid Power Man and Iron Fist to protect Matt, back when he'd thought Matt needed it.

Manolis shook his head. "Appreciate the thought, but I don't doubt I'm already a marked man. And much as you might want to have my back on this one, trust me, you don't. But that doesn't matter. At the end of the day, I still have to go home and face myself in the mirror and I won't be able to do that unless I do my bit to root out this… corruption. What happened to Murdock, what I did to him… that was bad. But it's just a symptom of the rot choking the system. I want to get that rot out. And after hearing the way you argued Murdock's case, I think you're probably the guy to do it."

Foggy smiled for the first time since Manolis had turned up on his doorstep. "I'm flattered," he said with quiet sincerity. "Seriously. I'm stunned that you think so highly of me. At the same time," he said, his smile dropping, "I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that a minute ago, you were calling me out for not stating something clearly. It sounds to me like you're doing the same thing. You're right. What happened to Matt is part and parcel of that corruption you're talking about, but without witnesses, without evidence, without testimony, proving it—and getting that verdict overturned—is going to be a long haul. It would be…" he hesitated, trying to think of the right words. "It would be… great. To put all the cronies, informants, and cops and politicians on the take out of commission. And I would love to be involved in that. But Matt's my best friend. If I can help him _and_ take on the stuff you're talking about, I'm in. If it's got to be one or the other, I can give you a list of contacts I have, which I trust, who might be willing to help you out. I'm focusing on getting that verdict overturned."

"Taking out whoever's behind it—" Manolis started to say.

"—could take years. I'm a young man, Detective. I've _got_ years. But I've also got a friend who lost his law license and I know he'd love to a part of this kind of action, if he could only get it back."

"That might not be possible until we fix the system."

"The very fact that Matt 'only' lost his license when the prosecution's case seemed guaranteed to land him two-to-five tells me that as deep as the trouble runs, a fair verdict _is_ possible." His expression turned deadly serious, though his tone stayed friendly. "With a witness to testify on Matt's behalf. In person," he added, stretching out his hand.

Manolis nodded slowly. "You've got one," he replied, clasping it firmly in his own.

* * *

Standing on a balcony some twenty blocks away, a hulking figure watched the glow of fires in the distance and smiled. He had chosen his weapon well.

One of his underlings joined him, blathering something about the situation getting out of hand and how it was time to rein Nuke in. He was probably right. But still, Fisk surveyed the carnage. There came another explosion and he felt the balcony vibrate beneath his feet. "There," he said, an unaccustomed note of awe creeping into his voice. "Did you feel that? Even here, twenty blocks distant, the earth trembles…"

* * *

Catching up to the guy was the easy part. Getting the gun away from him was proving to be much harder. Daredevil tried to leap into his path, but the gunman was faster and fired off a number of rounds to the street below. Matt heard glass shatter and an old woman collapse with a soft cry and wounds which would be critical, even had medical care been on-hand. Every time the creep fired, people were dying. Daredevil had to end this now.

He tried going for the gun again, and earned a clout with the rifle butt on his chin. He went down and had to roll quickly to avoid a burst of bullets from above. Damn. Not only was the guy fast, he had the helicopter serving as backup. Fine, then. Daredevil gritted his teeth. If he couldn't wrest the gun away, at least sticking close to the gunman would keep the helicopter from firing on both of them. He aimed a pressure point strike at the gunman's solar plexus. The man was bare-chested, but he might as well have been in full body armor for all the effect it had. Daredevil twisted so that a blow with the rifle butt that might have shattered his shoulder blade merely hurt like hell. Great. The guy didn't feel pain. So what could he…? Daredevil surged up and poked his index and middle fingers into his opponent's eyes. He took another clout from the rifle, but he didn't care. Right now, his enemy was as blind as _he _was. He couldn't afford to let up. Daredevil made his hand into a knife and struck for muscle, trying to sever it and nearly breaking his own fingers in the process. The guy was like an armored tank; he just kept coming. Daredevil tried another nerve-strike, but it was as ineffective as his first. Fine. He dealt a blow that should have shattered bone and felt a dull pain in his hand. That wasn't bone. Just what the hell was he fighting? It didn't matter. The guy was blind, off-balance, and didn't have a radar sense to tell him how close he was to the edge of the roof. And below…

Matt smiled. Then he bent down, braced his hands on the low brick wall that surrounded the rooftop, and kicked out with both feet, catching the gunman square in the back and knocking him off and down onto high-tension electrical wires. There was a loud buzz and crackle, followed almost instantly by a sizzle and the smell of burning flesh. Then the wires gave way and the gunman fell further, landing on the roof of a car below.

Metal groaned and glass cracked. Not windshield glass, nor window. Hazard lights. The gunman had fallen onto a police car. Daredevil heard screams from down below. People were panicking and the creep was still armed. Then he heard the gun fire and he sprang from the roof just before its blast hit.

The fight wasn't over yet.

* * *

Foggy locked the door behind Manolis and set about taking care of the end of the packing. It wasn't until he was taping the sixth box shut that he noticed how late it was. Matt and Karen should have been back by now. It probably wasn't anything serious. An unexpected rush of customers might have come into the diner and Otto could have asked Matt if he wanted to pick up some extra hours. Matt might have been too busy trying to fulfil the orders to call. Karen could have had a bookkeeping issue. There were any number of reasons why they might not have called.

Hey. Maybe the phone company had disconnected him a day early… He walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. Hearing a dial tone, he replaced it. So much for that idea. With a sigh, he went back to packing. Matt might just not feel like a night sealing up boxes after a day spent on his feet. If that were the case, Foggy meant to stick him with a lot of the _un_packing tomorrow.

It was too quiet in here. He was used to hearing the others by now. He manoeuvered his way over to the radio and turned it on.

_...gunman in Hell's kitchen. Police and emergency crews are at the scene. There is still no word on the number of fatalities. We will keep you updated. Once again, an unidentified gunman has opened fire in Hell's Kitchen. Police and emergency crews are at the scene._

With a shaking hand, Foggy turned on the TV and he felt his heart plummet. So many fires. So many still figures lying on the street like broken dolls. And somewhere in there, Karen and…

_…This station has received an unconfirmed report that Daredevil is in the vicinity. More on this as it develops…_

…Matt. Right in the thick of it.

* * *

Diving from the top of a seven-story building wasn't appreciably different from diving from the top of a 28-meter cliff. From that height, water and concrete felt about the same when you hit. In either case, the goal was to descend feet-first, keeping the body as vertical as possible.

Daredevil was cheating a bit. He was probably only falling about 27 meters, give or take. His target was not the pavement, but the roof of the police car onto which he'd hurled the gunman a moment earlier. Normally, the likelihood of his landing on the gunman would have concerned him, but since the guy seemed to have unbreakable bones an impenetrable skin, Daredevil was willing to take the chance that the guy wouldn't be too fazed by the impact of a 200-pound vigilante dropping onto him from seven floors up.

The car, however, was a different story. Metal buckled and bent beneath the two men and the smell of burning gasoline and heat from the flames were uncomfortably close. The car wasn't burning, but if those flames hit the gas tank… Daredevil bent down and wrested the gun from his opponent before leaping clear.

There was a heavy thud and his radar sense read a hulking outline walking through the flames. Unbelievable. How much more punishment could this guy take? More to the point, Daredevil wondered, how much more did _he_ have to throw at the guy?

Someone was screaming close by. "Get it off me, get it off me!"

"Ben! Stop thrashing!"

Ben and Glori, here, now, in the middle of all of this chaos. Daredevil hoped that they could manage, because right at the moment, he had another threat to deal with.

"Our boys…" the killer growled, stalking toward him.

Daredevil rammed the gun into him so hard that the butt broke off the rifle. It staggered the killer and a small object, probably a knife, dropped from his hand. Then the noise overhead from the chopper—he'd almost forgotten about that damned chopper—grew louder as the aircraft dropped lower and its guns began firing. He heard a scream and thought it was Glori and realized that there was only one way he could stop the copter from doing any more damage. It was one life balanced against countless others in the street and buildings around him. It was necessary. It was justifiable. But as he pointed the rifle at the chopper and squeezed the trigger, he knew that the sound of the resulting explosion, and the dying scream he could never be sure later whether he'd heard or merely imagined, would haunt him for a long time to come.

_Forgive me_, he mouthed the words silently. If he could have seen any other way to stop the carnage, he would have taken it, but he hadn't. The Avengers probably would have found some other means, but they hadn't been here either.

And then—suddenly—they _were_.

He didn't realize it at first, not even when the torrential rain poured down, seemingly out of nowhere. It worked like chaff in his radar, but it went a long way toward putting out the smoke and fire that filled his nostrils. The bystanders hushed their cries, so that the only thing roaring in his ears was the echo of his own blood. But still, he kept his grip on the killer's throat. "The Kingpin," he rasped. "He sent you. Say it."

The killer was no longer resisting him. In fact, he seemed unaware of his circumstances as he endlessly repeated, "Give me a white. Give me a white."

"The Kingpin," he repeated.

And then a new voice, one that bounced off the inside of a nickel-titanium mask (not iron; iron had a completely different tone) before emerging into the open air proclaimed, "Daredevil. That man is ours on federal authority. Stand back."

Daredevil hesitated.

"You have five seconds."

Two months ago, he might have been more stubborn, but Matt already had one death on his conscience today and he wasn't at all sure that he could take Kingpin's goon down without killing him too. Let the Avengers handle him. He backed away.

When Iron Man took hold of the goon, he was still asking for a white.

* * *

It was a long night. It was a horrible night. Foggy kept checking the window to see if Matt and Karen were on their way back. They hadn't called. He knew it probably wasn't their fault. According to the news, the attacks had taken out some major power lines and phones and electricity were down in much of Hell's Kitchen. He knew that. Just like he knew that Matt was safe. He'd seen the news on TV. He'd seen Daredevil take down the creep who'd been shooting up the streets.

He hadn't seen Karen, though.

For the fifth time that night, he picked up the phone and tried to call the church where Karen was working. The call could not be completed as dialed. Roosevelt Hospital. The call could not be completed as dialed. St. Vincent's… St. Luke's…

_…have been bringing donations of food, blankets, clothing, and toiletries to churches throughout the neighborhood. Official distribution centers are expected to be set up in all five boroughs within the next forty-eight hours._

Foggy looked at the time. It was almost three in the morning, but he knew he wouldn't sleep tonight. He looked at the stacks of boxes that were sealed, labeled, and ready to go. He opened one of the ones marked 'Linen Closet' and pulled out two flannel blankets.

Then he went downstairs to hail a taxi.

If he couldn't find Matt or Karen, at least he'd know that he'd done some good going out tonight.

* * *

Foggy was far from the only person having a horrible night. There were thousands of people in Hell's Kitchen who were arguably having a worse one. As was another man who sat in the sauna of his private office suite, surrounded by the high-ranking subordinates who handled the day-to-day running of his underground empire.

"Sheer lunacy, Kingpin!" Glazer ranted. "Sheer lunacy. Hundreds of people dead. If the syndicate gets fingered for it, we'll be in court for months."

Kingpin kept his temper in check with effort. "Mr. Glazer," her rumbled, "do not refer to our organization as a syndicate. It dates you."

"Dates me. Right. Sure. In the old days," Glazer's voice rose in pitch and volume, "we might go for a family, but we never flattened an entire neighborhood. Have you any idea what your vendetta has cost us tonight in lost drug trade?"

An unfortunate, but acceptable loss. Glazer was preoccupied with his own section of the puzzle and failing to look at the big picture. Kingpin could appreciate that shortcoming. It had taken him time to train himself out of the habit. Still, the little man's whining was becoming annoying. He sighed. "Very little, as compared to the lost real estate," he said, "but please," his voice became low and dangerous, "go on, Mr. Glazer."

Glazer didn't take the hint. And he ignored Wilson's urgent warning to stand down, as well. Kingpin decided to let the man vent. There had been a few too many shake-ups in the organization already, what with his efforts to eradicate the Page and Manolis trails. Then Glazer made two fatal missteps in the same breath. He questioned Fisk's sanity and he mentioned Fisk's wife. Fisk decided that he could absorb another shake-up, after all. His mind made up, he fixed Glazer with a hard stare. The subordinate tried to apologize and back down, but it was too late. Besides, he'd just accused Fisk of going soft.

The meaty hand that circled Glazer's throat and choked the life out of him might have been corded steel.

And nobody else in the room had any further complaints about the state of Hell's Kitchen tonight.

* * *

The taxi had to let him off almost four blocks from the church. The streets were torn up and there were police barricades up while emergency crews dealt with the last of the fires and searched the rubble for survivors. They weren't preventing pedestrians from getting through though, only steering them around the worst of the damage.

Foggy swallowed hard as he took in the area. He'd never seen anything like it in New York, but it reminded him of scenes he'd watched on the news some years back, when there had been that trouble in Beirut.

Dawn was breaking as he finally reached the church, still holding the blankets folded over one arm, as if he was a waiter with an extraordinarily bulky towel. "Excuse me," he muttered, as he brushed past someone. "Sorry."

And then a hand gripped his forearm and a quiet voice said, "Foggy." He whirled to find Matt smiling his old, slightly-lopsided smile.

"Matt!" he breathed, lifting his free arm and clapping his hand to his best friend's shoulder. "You're all right. Oh, thank goodness. I was so scared. Is Karen…?"

Matt's smile dimmed slightly. "She got hurt in the blasts," he said. A paramedic thinks she's got at least one hip pointer; she's in line to be transferred to Roosevelt, once the streets are safe for driving. It'll probably be some time before they move her, though." His smile vanished entirely. "There are a lot of people in worse shape."

Foggy nodded. "I know. I was watching the news. Until I couldn't anymore. I mean," he held out the blankets, "I mean… here. I thought maybe you could use these."

Matt smiled again. "Somebody will. Um. You should know that Glori's in there, too. She seems to be working with Ben at the _Bugle_, now. And since what happened last night was news…" Matt's voice trailed off.

"Is she okay?"

Matt nodded. "She got shot, but it's not serious. You should probably check up on her. I bet she'd be glad to see a friend, right now. I'm going to see how Karen's doing." He frowned. "Today is moving day," he said, stating rather than questioning it.

"Uh… yeah. But, I mean…"

Matt shook his head. "You're not doing it all yourself. I'm going to wait with Karen until they take her to Roosevelt. Then I'll head over to… the old place?" he asked. "Or the new one?"

"The new," Foggy said, after thinking about it for a moment. "You know the address?"

Matt nodded. "I'll see you there."

Then they both walked into the church.

* * *

Glori was glad to see him. As Foggy bent over the pew bench where she was lying, she gripped his hand and held on as though for dear life.

"I'm fine," she was telling him. "Bullet passed right through, Foggy. Though it did take a chunk of me with it."

Foggy squeezed her hand. "You should be in a proper hospital," he murmured.

Glori shook her head. "I can't be moved just yet." She took a deep breath. "Foggy, I've… I've got a favor to ask you."

At that moment, seeing her lying there, so pale, so vulnerable, he would have done just about anything. But she only wanted him to deliver a roll of film to Ben at the _Bugle_. He glanced several pews over, to where he could just see the top of Matt's head above the wooden bench back. Probably reassuring Karen. Foggy smiled. He'd do this one favor and then head back to the apartment and try to kill time until the movers arrived. "No trouble at all," he told Glori. Then he sighed, thinking about what might have been. "Well," he said softly, "I guess I'll be seeing you."

"Foggy?" Glori said, smiling as she released his hand, "I'll call you. If you're still after wanting to catch up when I'm more on the mend."

Foggy grinned back. "Su-sure. I mean, that'd be great."

He was still smiling as he made his way out of the chapel. Until Matt came running past him, jostling him as he went by.

"Sorry!" Matt called, already at the other end of the vestibule and tugging on one of the heavy doors leading to the outside.

"Matt?" Foggy asked. "What's…?"

Matt's voice was grim. "Trouble."


	22. Chapter 22

References: Daredevil Vol. 1, No. 233 by Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli.

A/N: I'm guessing that Kingpin's video chat was probably conducted over Datapoint MINX, a video-conferencing device that came out in the early 80s. I tried to research how it worked and just got the broad strokes in lay terms. I never used the tech myself and it's possible that what I understood of it from the article I found could be in error. If so, my apologies.

**Chapter 22**

There was no mistaking Captain America's heartbeat or breathing pattern. If he hadn't heard the Avenger's receding footsteps, Matt might almost have thought the man was in a glider or some other conveyance. No other man could move that fast and have his pulse remain so steady. Matt felt the air shift as the other man ran past him, rattling a trashcan lid en route. Sloppy… unless he wanted to be followed.

Matt sighed. Cap had to have been tracking him since last night. He had a fairly good idea why, too. During the hours that he'd hovered by Karen's side, Matt had had plenty of time to think about the gunman he'd fought earlier, and he'd recognized some disturbing similarities between his erstwhile foe and the man tracking him now. The gunman's heart rate had been fast. Probably something to do with the drugs in his system. But something about his moves, his reflexes, his stamina… _It had been like fighting Captain America on steroids_, he'd thought at the time_._ And if that description was the literal truth, then, of course, Cap would want to know more. He sighed again. Cap wanted to talk to him. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. He caught hold of the ladder of a fire escape and swung himself upwards, making his way toward the roof where the Avenger awaited.

He'd just barely cleared the concrete parapet, hadn't even landed, when Cap took a step toward him, his posture deliberately non-threatening. "Daredevil," he began, "I mean you no harm."

Matt hadn't slept in nearly twenty-four hours. Foggy was expecting him. Karen needed him. The city needed him. And he had better things to do than shoot the breeze with an Avenger on the roof of one of the few intact buildings in the neighborhood. Particularly since he was currently in civvies and Cap had just addressed him as 'Daredevil'. Even if it was unlikely that anybody was in earshot, Matt didn't like it. All the same, his problems weren't Cap's fault and he winced when he heard the belligerence in his own voice as he asked, "What do you want?"

Cap hesitated. Matt frowned. The man had run for several blocks, scaled a building, and done who even knew what else on his way here, but his heart rate had stayed steady. Now, it quickened. "That man," Cap said hesitantly, "last night… Who is he?"

Matt's eyebrows lifted. So, he'd been right. Or, at least, Cap shared his suspicions about the enemy he'd been fighting. Unfortunately, Matt had nothing to tell him and plenty to do.

"You didn't ask?" he demanded. Once again, he told himself to dial down his belligerence. Cap was asking now, after all, just not asking the right person. "Your employers, I mean," he amended.

"They aren't my employers," Cap sounded angry. Then, in a slightly more subdued tone, "They said he's a terrorist."

A pat statement. One Cap wasn't buying into, going by the tone of his voice. And Matt couldn't blame him. He snorted. "No ordinary terrorist, if that's even what he is," he said, confirming Cap's unstated hunch. "No. He's too good at it. And too well made," he added. And Cap's heart jumped again. Matt took a deep breath. He didn't know all the details of the Super Soldier program. It had never been that important to him. But he knew enough to understand why what he was about to say next would be of particular significance to Cap. "His skin contains several layers of plastics. It's very tough, doesn't burn easily. His skeleton, his muscles… They're only partly human." No doubt about it. The Avenger was rattled. Matt frowned. "So what's it to you?"

Cap took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "He wears the flag," he said hollowly.

There was more to it than that, but if he wasn't going to share it, Matt had other things to do. "I hadn't noticed," he said, taking a dive from the parapet.

Cap didn't follow.

* * *

"You look the way I must sound," Foggy said with forced cheer, when Matt showed up at the new apartment several hours later.

Matt shut the door behind him and leaned against it, wishing for a moment that he still had his cane. Although it wasn't meant to serve as a typical mobility aid, even an unmodified white cane was sturdier than it appeared. His own cane—which had actually been his billy club in 'disguise'—had been far more durable. He tried not to wonder what Kingpin had done with it after that sorry excuse for a throw-down nearly six weeks earlier. Still, he smiled. "Well, you sound exhausted, so I'm not surprised," he said. He shook his head. "I am sorry, though. I know you wouldn't have taken this place if I hadn't moved in and I didn't mean to make you do about ninety percent of the work."

Foggy held up a hand to stave off any further apologies. "More like forty percent," he said. "Spidey left about a half-hour ago. He said he had a feeling you'd have your hands full elsewhere." He sighed. "But even forty percent of the packing and unpacking can be draining when you don't get a good night's sleep."

"Or any other time," Matt said emphatically, remembering his arrival at Columbia. All his worldly goods had filled a medium-sized duffle bag and a knapsack, but while the weight of his possessions had been slight, the weight of the realization that he was leaving the only real home he'd ever known for an unfamiliar environment had been disproportionately immense.

"I thought you were done feeling sorry for yourself," Foggy muttered. Then, more sharply, "and don't feel sorry for _me_, either! Though I admit I didn't have the nerve to ask Spidey for his autograph, so if you're really feeling lousy and want to make it up to me…" That got him a short laugh. He took a deep breath and changed the subject.

"How's Karen?"

Matt's smile dimmed. "They're keeping her overnight, but it's not serious. I mean, it's _two_ hip pointers, so she'll need crutches for a little while, but compared to what could have happened… what did happen to so many others," he added, dropping his voice slightly, "it's not life-threatening. Only…"

"Only?"

Matt sighed. "If I had any doubts about whether she wanted to stay clean, they're gone now. She told the doctors that she was a recovering addict the minute they started talking about giving her something for the pain." He sighed again. "They have her on Tramadol. It's an opiate, but not as addictive as, say, morphine. Still, once she's released, one of us will need to hold onto the pills and make sure she only takes them as directed." He shook his head. "I get why it's necessary, but I still hate it."

"How's Karen handling it?"

Matt smiled. "Better than me, that's for sure. I think I can understand that part of it, too," he admitted. "I guess it sort of takes me back a bit to when I first lost my eyesight and everyone wanted to help me across the street or tell me what was happening around me, as if I were also deaf. I'm not kidding," he added, wincing a bit at the memory. "Too many people seemed to feel that they had to stand right next to me and shout in my ear."

"Yeesh," Foggy replied, only half-faking a shudder.

"And," Matt added, "when I was in my senior year of high school and managed to contract strep and stomach flu at the same time, Dad had a neighbor check up on me during the day—who decided that I couldn't be trusted to take my own meds, because 'how could I possibly avoid mixing them up'?" Matt made a face. "One was a liquid, one was a gelatin capsule, and one was a tablet roughly half the size of the capsule. If I had them on me, I could blindfold _you_ right now and you'd have no trouble telling one from the other. But she refused to believe that I could handle it, even when I pointed out how easily anyone could." He shook his head. "She made me feel like a five-year-old. And right now, well, intellectually, I know that nobody is doing that to Karen. I know—and _she_ knows—that prescription painkillers can be addictive and having someone else take charge of them is only sensible. But…"

"Yeah."

Matt sighed. "All right. If she can deal with it, I can deal with it. What's left for me to unpack?"

* * *

Matt didn't remember falling asleep. He could have sworn that he'd only meant to relax on the sofa for a moment the night before, but now the morning sun filtering through the window warmed his cheek, waking him gently. He groaned. He'd exerted himself more in the last twenty-four hours than he had since his last fight with Kingpin and his arms and back were making their displeasure known. Dozing off while more or less slumping on the sofa hadn't helped matters. And he wasn't yet familiar enough with the new apartment to easily distinguish which of the shapes that surrounded him belonged to the furnishings, and which to the stacks of boxes that Foggy meant to wheel down to the storage locker later today.

_Later to…_ Matt sat bolt upright, and stifled another groan. "Foggy?" he called.

He heard the scrape of a chair from the other room, followed by the slap of slipper soles on hardwood. "Oh, good," Foggy said, pulling the door open. "You're up. Which is more than I can say for the phone line," he added, sounding annoyed. "I called the hospital from a payphone at the donut shop next door—there's a box on the kitchen table, by the way. Help yourself to what's left of the dozen. They're keeping Karen for another day, at least."

Matt half-rose from the sofa. "I didn't think she was that badly hurt," he said, startled.

"She's not. I talked to her," Foggy reassured him as he drew closer. There was a rustling sound to his left, the glide of paper on sheet laminate, and then Foggy was slipping a thin ruled page into his hand. "That's the number for the hospital switchboard and her room number underneath," he explained. "She'd like you to give her a call. For now, they want to monitor her condition a bit more closely, because of those issues you were telling me about yesterday. If all's well, she'll probably be released tomorrow or the day after. For now, she's taking it easy—which is something I wish you'd do, too."

Matt was already shaking his head. "I can't."

"I know," Foggy admitted, "but I still wish you would." He took several steps away and Matt heard more paper rustle. The smell of newsprint came closer. "Anyway, there's some good news, at least," he added. "Ben's story's out. I mean, it's the farthest thing from a feel-good puff piece there is," he went on, as Matt ran his fingers over the headline.

"Mystery killer attacks Hell's Kitchen; dozens dead?" Matt queried wryly. "I'd never have guessed from the headline."

"Smartass," Foggy said without heat. "Keep reading. Ben named a few names. Fisk's isn't one of them, but if you read the descriptions…"

Matt's eyebrows shot up. No, Ben hadn't mentioned the Kingpin by name, but Foggy was right: it was almost impossible not to connect the dots to find that they formed an arrow—one that pointed squarely at Wilson Fisk.

"Stops _this_ short of veering into libel suit territory."

"I can see that," Matt said.

"And there's something you can't see," Foggy went on. "At least, you told me that you can't read images with your fingertips, right?"

Matt shook his head. "Not unless they're extremely crude. Like a kindergarten kid's drawing of a house that's basically a square with a triangle for a roof. Photos are out of the question."

"Okay. I'm not sure if the photo _credit_ is printed large enough for you to make it out, but—"

Matt had found it. The lower-case letters _were_ too small, but he could pick out the two capitals. And if Foggy was calling attention to the byline, then… He broke into a surprised smile. "Glori?"

"I knew she was a photographer, but I didn't realize her work was good enough for the _Bugle_. It's a great picture," Foggy added. "Caught the shooter's face right up close." The smile vanished. "Which might explain how she got injured."

Matt sighed. "I don't know. Maybe. Everything happened so quickly. It could just be that she found herself in the middle of a battle zone with no warning and decided to try to salvage something of the situation." He smiled faintly. "She was living in Belfast, not all that long ago. I can't believe she'd deliberately go charging into a firefight to snap a photo. But if the firefight erupted around her and she had a camera…"

Foggy nodded. "Well, maybe I'll ask her about it next Saturday."

Matt nodded back. It took almost a full minute before his friend's words fully penetrated. "Next… Saturday?"

"We're going to Gilbert and Sullivan in the Park," Foggy said, his tone deliberately casual. "I mean, if you're okay with her and me seeing each other. You are, right?"

Matt broke into a broad smile. "I'm pretty sure Karen would have a few things to say to me—things not suitable for a family newspaper, I might add—if I didn't!"

* * *

Wilson Fisk was having a miserable morning. His media relations team reported that they had been fielding queries from newspapers and local television stations since the early edition of the _Bugle_ had hit the stands. He wasn't overly concerned about the local press. He could manage that. The national news agencies were more worrisome. If he needed to rein them in, it would be… messier.

With a sigh, he reached for the telephone. Then he pulled back his hand and smiled. The military liked its hi-tech toys. He could play too. He turned to his computer and switched the keyboard to communications mode. It was a bothersome tool; long-range video conferencing relied on satellites and fiber optics instead of regular phone lines. One day, the process would be streamlined. One day, it would even be commonplace. This was not that day. His fingers flew over the console as he set up the call. While tone of voice conveyed much, Fisk also wanted to see the general's face, pick up on the nuances of his expression and body language and, more importantly, know whether the general was alone in the room, or whether he was taking his cues from someone in the background.

He initiated the communication.

The general was nervous; that much was obvious, for all he tried to project calm. And he was alone. Good. Fisk explained the reason for his call tersely, making sure to insinuate that the general had failed to adequately convey Agent Simpson's mental state. He had expected there to be casualties, but nothing on this scale. And he made it clear that any media inquiry into his activities would almost certainly uncover Simpson's activities in Nicaragua. From there, it wouldn't be difficult to discover the name of the general who had authorized his transfer back to the States. Fisk let _those_ implications sink in. Yes, the video conference had been a good idea. On its own, the general's perspiration might denote nothing more serious than inadequate air conditioning. Combined with rapid blinking and an inordinate amount of time fussing with his collar and picking up various objects on his desk… The man was nervous. Good. That made him vulnerable. That made him useful.

Fisk refrained from smiling his satisfaction. "Will you contain the story, General," he asked calmly. "Or must I take measures of my own?"

The general's Adam's apple bobbed as he gave a pained smile. "You can count on my department to render the situation stabilized, Mr. Fisk," he said.

Now he could smile. He was about to convey his thanks, when he heard a door open and a frantic voice from off-screen exclaim, "Sir… Sir! You can't—"

The communication terminated abruptly leaving Fisk staring at a darkened screen.

The Kingpin of Crime started forward in angry surprise. What the hell had just happened?

* * *

General Remmick managed a welcoming smile, as Captain America stormed into his office over the protests of the administrative assistant in the outer office. He thanked his lucky stars that he'd been blocking the video conferencing screen and had turned the machine off just in the nick of time.

From his previous encounters with the only true success story of the Super Soldier Program, Remmick knew that Steve Rogers was a man of great integrity, but limited vision. There was no way that he would countenance the measures that the general had taken to acquire the necessary funding and equipment for the men and women under his command. Worse, Captain America was probably short-sighted enough to report any concerns directly to the Secretary of the Army. That would be an Article 32 hearing. And then? Then things would _really _hit the fan. Visions of MPs frog-marching him out of his office in handcuffs danced before his eyes, obscuring the headline of the newspaper in the Avenger's hand.

"General," Captain America demanded, pointing to the picture on the front page, "who is this man?"

"Captain," Remmick replied, affecting a warmly paternal tone, "Captain. Pleasure to see you. Pleasure." He was laying it on too thick. He needed to dial it back a few notches. "Oh, that nonsense," he chuckled, gesturing toward the _Bugle_. "I'm afraid you're not cleared for that, Captain, but it's nothing to…" Rogers wasn't buying it. Remmick started again. "You know how these things…" What was the matter with him? If he was having this much trouble talking to the Avenger, how the hell was he going to snow the press? "I really wish I could tell you, Captain. Then you'd know it's nothing to… I wish I could…" He didn't know what he was saying anymore as he rambled on about how much the military admired the captain's commitment and loyalty.

The Avenger cut him off politely, but firmly. "I'm loyal to nothing, General… Except the dream."

And then he spun on his heel and exited without another word.

Remmick swallowed hard. This wasn't over, not yet. He had to move now, get Agent Simpson out of the country before the police handed him back to the military to face his own court martial. If Simpson disappeared, then Remmick would have a far easier time hiding certain key pieces of information pertaining to the Hell's Kitchen incident. There would be an inquiry, but it would get nowhere. And, in time, as the story faded from the headlines, the matter could be carefully swept under the rug. With any luck, by the time the full truth came to light, both he and Fisk would be long retired… or gathered unto their ancestors.

Either option suited him just fine.

* * *

"You'd tell me if you were having trouble keeping up, right?" Matt asked, as Karen hobbled gamely next to him, balancing on a pair of crutches. "I mean, we can always take the subway, if we have to."

"You'd tell me if the acoustics in the subway station were killing your ears, right?" Karen gasped, and Matt slowed his pace a bit. "Because, what's sauce for the goose…"

Matt broke into a smile. "Much as I appreciate the thought, I think it's only fair that we take turns putting up with stuff we'd rather not have to put up with. So…"

Karen laughed a little. "So, I'll walk with you to the diner now, and we'll take the subway back to Foggy's after you pick up your paycheck. And then, when we get home, I'll put my feet up and you can put a jazz album on. Sound good?"

Matt's smile broadened. "Sounds great."

"So," Karen said, changing the subject, "what are the sleeping arrangements? Are you and Foggy bunking in together, or…?"

Matt shrugged. "Nothing's set in stone, yet. We decided to wait until you were released to decide."

"Oh," Karen said softly. "And you're sure Foggy won't mind if we…? I mean…"

"He won't mind," Matt confirmed. "But we've both had some major upheavals lately and, as much as I want to pick up where we never should have left off years ago, if you want to take things a little slower, well, Foggy and I were roommates in college. And we've been sharing the living room these last few weeks. We've managed."

"Yeah," Karen said.

Matt frowned. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she repeated, this time with a smile in her voice. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking. It doesn't seem fair that no matter what happens, you're giving up your privacy. Maybe you should get one bedroom to yourself and I'll bunk with Foggy."

Matt stopped short. "Wh-what?"

Then Karen giggled. "Got you," she said, punching him lightly in the arm.

After a moment, Matt laughed too. "You did," he admitted. "And," he rested a hand gently on her forearm, "you do."

* * *

The closer they got to the diner, the less they smiled and laughed. The irony wasn't lost on Matt. The first time he'd come here, he'd followed the smell of burnt food. Today, the burning smell might have been fainter—the fires had been out for over a day, now—but it spread out over a much larger area. Matt wrinkled his nose.

"I smell it, too," Karen admitted. "Are you okay?"

Matt nodded. "I managed two days ago, when it was still burning. This is bad, but nothing I can't handle. Whether I want…" His voice trailed off as they reached the diner—or what was left of it. "To…" Matt continued, his jaw dropping as his radar sense took in the new shapes of the buildings on the street. Two days ago, there had been solidly-built square and rectangular structures. Now, everything was in ruins. The diner was still standing, but the upstairs apartments had gone and there were holes in the ceiling where beams and girders had slammed into it.

"Otto?" he called, disbelieving. The owner had asked him to come here to pick up his pay, but he couldn't believe that the older man felt safe enough inside with the debris poking in and the dust and ash in the air.

"Here, Mac," Otto called back, coming out of what had been the kitchen. "Afraid I can't put on a pot of coffee for you without electricity." While the restauranteur's voice was hearty enough, there was a slump to his shoulders and a shuffle to his step that hadn't been there two days ago. The kitchen door opened again and his wife Bertha joined him.

"I don't mind," Matt said. "How are you holding up?"

Otto sighed. "We're alive. That's what's important."

"Can…" Karen was turning around, taking everything in. "Can you rebuild?"

"Not without money," Otto sighed again. "And it doesn't look like there's going to be any of that."

"You're not insured?" Matt asked, surprised.

Otto snorted. "'Course I am," he snapped. "For all the good it does me. They found some excuse I don't even understand to keep from paying on the policy."

"You could sue them," Matt said, fighting to keep his voice steady. If he'd still had his license, he could have—but, of course, he didn't.

Besides, Otto wasn't having any of it. "You ever sue anybody, Mac? Me and the bride, we're not young anymore. And we've never been rich. Being right? Let's just say that don't count for much, not when you bring lawyers into it."

Foggy could… Matt checked himself. Foggy had a heart of gold. He probably would be willing to help Otto pro bono, but he was already putting in long hours at Kelco. Taking on Otto's case, with everything else Foggy had on his plate… No, Matt couldn't ask, much less expect, for him to take on an insurance company for nothing, or even for a percentage of a hypothetical settlement.

Matt sighed. "No," he replied. "I guess it doesn't. Out of curiosity, who's the policy with? I… might know a guy."

When Otto named the company, Matt shook his head. "Sorry." But he wasn't really. Confederated Global was another name he knew.

"Mac?" Otto's voice cut into his thoughts. "I have your last pay here," he opened his wallet and counted off some bills. "But if you're waiting for us to reopen, I wouldn't hold my breath."

Matt nodded. "You never know, Otto. Sometimes," he smiled, "miracles happen."

Once he and Karen were back out on the street, his smile widened. Confederated Global was another of Fisk's companies. That… made them fair game.

"So, the church won't be needing me for at least another week," Karen was saying. "I guess that means we're both unemployed for now. We…" She paused. "I know that smile," she said. "You've got something in mind. What is it?"

There were too many people on the street right now. Matt couldn't take the chance that someone would overhear who shouldn't. But he didn't want to shut Karen out entirely. "It's sneaky," he said. "But I think it'll work."

* * *

Foggy was not pleased. "You're going out _again_?" he snapped. "In that?"

Matt buttoned his shirt back over his costume with a sigh. "No, Foggy," he said. "I'm going out in street clothes, so nobody spots Daredevil leaving this apartment. I'll ditch the civvies on a rooftop on the way and pick them up later."

"Oh, that makes everything so much better."

If he could actually hear eyes roll, Matt knew he'd be hearing them now. "The costume gives me a psychological advantage over criminals, Foggy. It makes it easier to move. Really, it's crucial."

"Right," Foggy sighed. "Fine. Do what you got to do. But if you get yourself killed…"

"What'll you do, Foggy?" Matt asked wearily.

Foggy exhaled. "Well, you can forget about me helping you get your license back, for one thing." He shook his head when Matt snickered. "Seriously, be careful. Your ribs might not be fully healed yet."

"I know," Matt admitted. "I will." He pulled on his jacket and turned to go.

"Fix your back," Foggy called after him. "Your mask is bunched up between your shoulder blades. It looks strange."

"Thanks," Matt said, reaching behind the back of his neck with one hand.

"Hey. Good luck."

"Thanks." Then he was gone.

Foggy turned to Karen. "Well, now that we've dug out the filing cabinet from under all those boxes, I guess I _should_ get back to working on Matt's case."

Karen hesitated. "Can I help?" When Foggy didn't answer right away, she added, "I used to be pretty good at research."

Foggy nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you were. Okay. I think I've got about half my law books unpacked and on the shelves. The rest of them are still in that stack of boxes over there. I labeled everything, so it should be easy to find. Let's sit down and I'll bring you up to speed."

* * *

Wilson Fisk was trying to put the morning's concerns out of his head. This evening, he was the guest of honor at a gala affair, receiving an award from the Businessmen's Association. This evening, he would leave the underworld and his past criminal activities behind. He had worked for this. He had lobbied for it. He had cajoled, threatened, blackmailed, and caused bodily harm for it. And his efforts were paying off. Tonight, New York's business elite lauded him. Tonight was the future.

And then, without warning, a name from the not-so-distant past seemed to explode in his brain, like a firework drowning out the cheers and adulation. Murdock. He was out there, somewhere, ready to strike. Fisk had no idea when and he could not afford to let down his guard. Murdock was free to hunt him, to haunt him, to laugh at him.

He told himself that Murdock was nothing. Just a man, like all the other men he had broken and laid low. He'd been telling himself that since the cab had been hauled out of the East River. And if he kept telling himself the same thing, perhaps he might even come to believe it one day.

And then, he was aware of Wesley, standing beside him, talking rapidly in an undertone, telling him something urgent regarding Nuke.

And as Fisk listened, he felt the first hairline crack appear in his veneer of respectability…

* * *

He knew exactly where they'd be. Bookies, con artists, penny ante operators—all owed Kingpin a cut of their take. And most knew better than to make him send people to collect it. He'd known the main drop-off points for some time, but he hadn't let on. When a criminal's base of operations was hard to find, Daredevil had learned that if he staked out one of these offices, sooner or later they—or some flunky he recognized—would come to settle their bill. Then, all he had to do was follow them back home.

He should probably get back to that, he mused. But right now, Otto needed close to twenty-five thousand dollars to rebuild the diner. And since Kingpin was responsible for its destruction, it was only just that the cost of repairs come out of his coffers.

He stood on the rooftop, paying close attention to the people entering and leaving the seedy waterfront office, estimating the amount of cash piling up. Finally, there was a lull in the traffic and he kicked in the window and got to work.

He'd miscalculated. There was more like thirty thousand here. Maybe Otto would be able to make some added improvements. He was just collecting the cash in one of the messenger bags that had been lying conveniently on a countertop, when the phone rang.

It almost certainly wasn't for him, but if nobody answered, it might arouse suspicion. He picked up. "Yeah?" he said, trying to disguise his voice. True, that few of those likely to be on the other end would recognize it, but Kingpin might. And, he had to admit that some of Kingpin's more… hapless… flunkies might have heard his voice frequently enough to know it, too. Turk, for instance.

There was no greeting, polite or otherwise. The voice on the line was low, terse, and all business. "Our army contact says Nuke broke out. Headed for the Daily Bugle. Scramble Roark and wire him good. Get him in position and wait for the kill order."

Daredevil's jaw set. He wasn't sure who this 'Nuke' was, but he imagined he'd find out. Once he got to the Bugle building himself.

For the second time in three days, he heard gunfire and the sound of choppers circling low over Manhattan. He could smell cement dust and burning ash, feel light rain misting over the exposed part of his face, taste sawdust and tar flecks in the air. They were close, only three blocks away, circling.

Daredevil frowned. If they were circling, then their target had to be inside. And although it was possible that the 'copters were sanctioned police choppers, he doubted it. If they were, then they never would have blasted that building. He took off at a run, glad that the buildings were close together. Without his billy-club, he couldn't swing; he could only leap.

The closer he got, the greater his discomfiture grew. He could pick up the chopper pilots conversing over their radios now, and he didn't like what he was hearing in the slightest.

"Wait till they come out… keep it tight…"

He heard a heavy door creak on its hinges atop the building the choppers circled. Roof access. And… He bit back a curse. He recognized those heartbeats. _Both_ of them.

All at once, he realized that he had a pretty good idea who Nuke was, after all.

* * *

Foggy knew that his colleagues at Kelco worked odd hours, but it was Saturday evening and there was a decent chance that Marci would be home and able to bring him up to speed on what he'd missed at the office.

She was. "Hey, Foggy-Bear!" she greeted him. "How's the new place?"

Foggy leaned back in his straight-backed chair. "Well, I'm glad I gave myself a three-day weekend to get settled. I'm about seventy-five percent unpacked, but I promised myself that once I had all my law books shelved and a clear path to my filing cabinet, I'd start tackling some of what I left undone on Thursday. I was hoping you could fill me in."

Marci sighed. "And here I thought I'd get in good with the boss by taking on your work and mine," she said. "Give me a minute."

They spent the next hour going back and forth over the caseload. Marci had found a promising angle that hadn't occurred to him and he was already turning over further possibilities in his mind. Finally, he thanked her. "So, did anything interesting happen in the office on Friday?" he asked. "Anything important I need to know?"

"Well," Marci laughed, "if you hadn't asked me, I wouldn't have said anything. I wasn't sure if I should spoil the surprise. And I like seeing how different people react under pressure. But…"

"But?" Foggy repeated, unconsciously sitting up a bit straighter.

"You sound nervous, Foggy-Bear. Relax. It's not like you're being audited. But you know that grand jury hearing you had a few months back, where you defended your old partner? How's Matt, by the way?"

"Haven't heard from him in a while," Foggy said easily, glancing at his watch. It had been more than three hours and, as much as he told himself that Matt could handle things, as much as he _knew_ that Matt was about a million times better than he'd been since that night in December when he'd taken that taxi to the bottom of the river, he would still feel a lot better once he knew that Matt was home safe. "What about the hearing?"

"Who was the prosecution team? I know it was Montague's last case before…" Her voice lowered and lost some of its breeziness. "Well, you know."

"Yeah." Two weeks after the hearing, Cameron Montague had died in a head-on collision with an out-of-control semi. The driver of the other car had managed to jump clear at the last minute. Montague hadn't been as fortunate. And he'd had an ADA assisting. Sharp guy, a bit nervous, but obviously on the ball, reminded Foggy a bit of him and Matt when they'd just been starting to attract higher-profile clients. "Carlson. It was Montague and Steve Carlson."

"Sounds like he takes elocution lessons and you'd lay odds he either wants to talk to you about his political campaign or sell you a used car?"

Foggy laughed. He'd actually thought much the same thing when he'd first heard the guy speak. "Sounds about right."

"Well, he called on Friday looking for you. Naturally, I asked if I could help him in your absence, thinking that if he gave me half a chance, I could really show you up and impress the higher-ups," she added in a tone that sounded jocular, but Foggy suspected that she was telling an unvarnished truth. "But he said he had to speak with you personally. So, anyway, he should be calling back on Monday."

Foggy's eyebrows shot up, but he fought to keep anything stronger than polite interest out of his voice when he replied, "Appreciate the heads-up Marci. I'll wait for his call."

He'd never met Carlson before the grand jury hearing, so it probably had to do with Matt. He had no idea if it was good news or bad news, but he knew he'd be spending the rest of the weekend wondering.

* * *

"Keep it tight," came the voice from the chopper. "On my order…"

Ordinarily, Matt wouldn't have worried. Cap shouldn't need his help. Then he realized that Cap was half dragging-half carrying his companion. Nuke was wounded, his breathing and heart rate increasing. Matt was close enough now to smell the sharp iron tang of blood from numerous wounds. He guessed little—if any—of it was Cap's. The Avenger was moving slowly, but Matt was willing to wager it was on Nuke's account. Rough handling would probably exacerbate the wounded man's injuries.

Normally, Cap shouldn't need his help. But normally, there wouldn't be three circling choppers taking pot-shots at the roof. Matt's frown deepened. The conversations filtering down to his sensitive ears were peppered with military slang. The accents were different regions of the US: Midwestern, Bronx, and Deep South. If he could have seen the paint on the copters, he'd have known beyond a shadow of a doubt, but instead, he could only guess that he was dealing with some branch of the Armed Forces. Why the hell would they be firing on their own people?

"On my order…" the voice repeated and Matt, realizing what was about to happen, backed up so he could get a running start. He could worry about the whys later. Right now, he had to move. He had to get Cap and his captive to safety, before the pilot of the lead chopper spoke again.

"…_Fire."_


End file.
